


Sugar

by asuralucier



Series: Sugar [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Just an excuse to write horny but erudite!Elio, M/M, Multi, Oliver is a responsible escort (mostly), Samuel and Annella are a little embarrassing, Slow burn with ratchet sexual tension, don't worry until there is actualfax sex we can make do with eyefucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-06 21:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14065653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: “Have you ever considered doing pornography?” I ask him.He outright laughs, “No. I don’t like sharing myself with that many people.”Alternatively, a modern-day AU where Oliver, west coast sun god extraordinaire, becomes Professor Perlman’s favorite student; Elio is smitten (read: very horny), and it just so happens that Oliver is an escort working to put himself through school.[COMPLETE! as of 16/04/18]





	1. Smart Ass

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! Thanks for giving this terribly self-indulgent AU a read. I was just inspired by that bit in the book where Elio wonders if Oliver's dick has been in every vagina in B., then my brain did strange things and here we are. I will be working on this full time after I manage to finish and update _Impromptu_ to the end. However, I thought I could use a break from the heavy and I'm quite proud of this so far. I hope you enjoy it too! 
> 
> Please do let me know what you think! xx

The first thing I notice about the dinner guest that Dad brings home is that he’s six-foot-five and must live at the gym. He is tan (bronzed, more accurately), with piercing blue eyes that must look through me and blond hair that only keeps its color because he’s won favor with the sun. 

Dad says, “Elio, this is Oliver.” We shake hands. I press down on his -- Oliver’s -- knuckles and he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Hey,” says Oliver, and I immediately hate him as much I’d like to see him naked. Which is a lot, considering I’ve only known the guy five minutes. 

“Hey,” I say. 

Dad does this sometimes. He’s been teaching Classics for twenty years and I think he thinks of it as sort of a game, plucking a student from this or that postgraduate seminar and showering them with all kinds of attention. Sometimes we even take the students on trips with us when Dad has a conference somewhere, or when he gets called on to consult on a text that’s been found somewhere. I am eighteen soon, and I know that I don’t have to go everywhere my parents go, but I don’t mind my parents and I like seeing new places. If the student in question is male, then I get to share a hotel room with him. Our house is an ever revolving door of young intelligentsia coming and going and most of the time, I go unnoticed. My brain is not nearly as attractive as my father’s. 

It’s been this way ever since before I was born. 

My mother is a great cook, and I watch Oliver scarf down Mom’s moussaka like he’s never had a home-cooked meal in his life. He is not a very elegant eater, but that doesn’t really dampen the enjoyment I get watching him eat, “This is delicious, Mrs. P.!” 

“It’s a very simple dish,” Mom says, because she is modest the way Dad and I aren’t. Sometimes I like to think of my family as a perfect isosceles triangle. 

“Nonsense,” Dad says, reaching to peck my mother on the cheek. “You’re good at everything, Annie. But she makes even more fantastic desserts. Just you wait.” 

 

I think Oliver is a little disturbed by how my parents still kiss each other in front of other people. I can see it in his face. It is, by all rights, not a very parently thing to show that you are still in love with one another after squeezing a kid out of the mother’s vagina and raising him (me) until he doesn’t smell like he is sitting in his own shit. But this is how it’s always been too. We’re proudly continental. Italian, French, and German float around our house along with English. We are also less so proudly Jewish, although we do observe all of the major holidays. Between clearing away the moussaka and fetching dessert, Mom and Dad almost forget that they have a guest because there’s almost no English mixed in with what they are saying. I’m almost certain Oliver doesn’t speak any Italian. My money is on French (and at a stretch, German), with him. I think I can always tell, with languages. 

“...Your parents don’t seem like real people,” Oliver says, helping himself to the carafe of red that’s still on the table. Then he looks at me and gestures at my glass, “Want some? You are allowed, aren’t you?” 

“I am allowed,” I tell him. “This is my house too. But you should wait for the dessert wine, that’s better.” 

“You guys have dessert wine,” Oliver looks at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted an abnormal abscess of some description on my face. 

“Well, yes,” I say. “Dessert wine with dessert.” 

He changes up on me, trading in the confusion on his face for a cocky grin instead. “You’re a bit of a smart ass, aren’t you?” But Oliver drinks the bit of wine he’s poured into his glass and doesn’t pour any more. 

“I just know things,” I look at him. Raising my voice just a touch, I project in the direction of the kitchen, “Dad, I’m getting the passito from the cabinet!”

 

Over slices of apricot cake topped with brown sugar and almond flakes, I learn that Oliver a.) really likes passito, he keeps topping himself up, b.) he isn’t shy about disagreeing with my father and c.) that the etymology for “apricot” traverses from the Latin, to the Greek, to being borrowed by the Byzantines, to finally being inherited by the Arabs as _al-barquq_. 

Actually, the last one is a misnomer. I’ve heard this story before. Sometimes the students don’t get it right and if they don’t, they don’t get invited back again unless it’s under extraordinary circumstances. My father enjoys games, like I’ve said already. 

“...And bravo,” Dad says, pleased, as he refills Oliver’s glass with more passito. “That was masterfully done. Very concise.” 

“He does that every time,” My mother says, with a slightly affectionate roll of her eyes. “It’s a wonder it doesn’t get old.” 

“It’s a pretty neat trick,” Oliver agrees easily. “Now I have to go back and thank my philology professor from college.” 

“Oh,” Dad brightens, “Was he a particularly good lecturer? You know, it sometimes is very difficult for us to introduce these concepts to people who aren’t particularly keen on them in the first place. I’d be interested to hear about your experience.” 

“Well,” Oliver takes a sip of the wine. He leans back in his chair, vaguely tipsy and comfortable, taking up space. “It’s not really like that, Professor. He was a she, and her legs were killer. I think the male half of the class all paid rapt attention. I’m afraid I can’t speak for the ladies on this one.” 

Dad takes this in good humor, “We do what we must. If her anatomy helps her spread the gift of knowledge, then I think she’s doing a very good thing.” 

I don’t even know who this philology lady professor is, but I find myself daringly jealous of her. After dessert, Oliver says good-bye to my parents. He shakes Dad’s hand and he kisses my mother on the cheek. And then he gets to me and I don’t think he knows quite what to do. 

Finally, I hold out my hand and he takes it. Oliver grins at me loose and open and all I think about is what he’s going to do after he leaves our house. Go to a girlfriend’s house. Have drunk sex. Maybe smoke some marijuana. Have more sex. Go to a boyfriend’s house. He’s flexible in my head. 

“Later, smart ass.” Are Oliver’s last words to me, and then he’s out the door. 

 

The good thing about my parents, is that I can always ask them things. At sixteen, I'd asked about birth control on Marzia’s behalf and my mother had spent an afternoon taking her to the doctor’s. I ask my father more about Oliver while he’s smoking on the porch and he looks at me with some curiosity. 

“More about Oliver?” He weighs my question. It’s my own fault that he is curious of course, I rarely enquire about my father’s students because I dislike other people’s pretensions and I prefer my own company. “What do you mean ‘more,’ Elio? Only precise questions get precise answers.” 

I perch on one of the arm rests of his chair and he shifts to make room for me. “He’s not from New York, is he?”

“He’s from Los Angeles,” says Dad. “He was one of Milani’s brightest. She said I should look after him, so I am. She says he’s shy and doesn’t like admitting that he’s clever. It’s people like that, Elio, that might need a little bit more help than the rest of us.” 

Los Angeles. This explains his tan at the height of autumn, his hair, my imagination of his predilections, and maybe his penchant for the gym. I don’t know that much about people from California. We usually travel out of the country more than we travel domestically. 

“I don’t think he’s shy,” I say. “Can I have a cigarette?” 

Dad considers this, “Yes. But you must not let your mother smell it on you when you go in.” He lights me one. My father detests lighters and always has a packet of matches on hand. “You don’t think he’s shy?” 

“He was talkative enough at dinner,” I reason as I take my cigarette. And only a person who isn’t shy would dare call me a smart ass but anyway. I don’t need to bring that up as an example to Dad. 

“People who talk too much are often the shyest,” Dad peers at me. “Do you think you are shy, Elio?” 

I shrug, “I don’t know.” 

I admit it; I am a strange kid. I showed up the first day of kindergarten mixing French and Italian and it was only later that my parents asquienced to the fact that they probably need to speak more English around me in the house. For a school talent show when I was eight, I recited Mark Antony’s speech from _Julius Caesar_ wearing a toga. I don’t have many friends and I never thought I needed many. If friends help pass the time, then my piano and my books do that well enough for me already. I’ve never had to think about whether I was shy or not.

And yet suddenly, the question scares me. Some of Dad’s questions do that. I don’t know if they are designed to. 

“I’m going for a walk,” I say. 

Dad waves to me from the porch, “Call if you’re not going to be back for dinner.” 

 

I walk to Marzia’s. Her house is two blocks away from mine and sometimes I think my life would be a lot easier if I’d kept fucking her. But she’d looked at me, and my dick, after about the third time we’d had sex and _laughed_ at me. 

“Elio,” she’d said to me. “Have you ever considered going for dick?” 

At her recommendation, I’d tried dick too. I'd tried Andrew Smythe, who’d sang in the school chorus, and Jonas Clement (pronounced the French way, the sexy way that is massively preferable), who was the only other person doing well in A.P. Latin. Maybe I don’t mind dick, I think to myself after both of those cock-up encounters. At the same time, I could stand to forget about those particular dicks too. But then, it is also possible that I don’t like anything. 

When I tell Marzia this, she always tells me to stop being dramatic. But I haven’t had sex in about six months and neither has she. We’re each other’s support group. I think she’s dealing with it better than I am. There’s nothing worse than a dry summer. 

While I could go and ring Marzia’s doorbell, I always find it easier to climb through her window. 

She looks up from her bed as I do, and she wrinkles her nose, “ _Puzzi_! You’ve been smoking. You’re going to stink up my room.” 

“We’ll leave the window open,” I say. 

Marzia sighs, “All right.” She’s got nice legs too, there’s no denying. I notice them when she shifts on her bed to make room for me, and I think about how her legs might compare to Oliver’s philology professor from his former university. “...You’re brimming,” she says because she practically knows me inside out. “Are you only here to complain about the invasion of terrible Latin in your front room again?” 

I often complain to Marzia about Dad’s students, this is true. For the first time, I almost feel a bit guilty. “No.” 

“...Really?” Her tone is wavering somewhere between cautious curiosity and disbelief. 

“I don’t always complain to you, do I?” I lie down and put my head on her knees and she strokes my hair the way I like. 

“Dad’s latest is from California,” I say. “He looks like Adonis.” 

Marzia peers down at me to see if I’m kidding. When I don’t change my expression even an inch, she says, “And?” 

“And,” I draw out the word. “I don’t know.” 

Marzia is a dear, darling friend and takes pity on me. She buries her fingers my hair and makes a game out of trying to straighten my curls. “And you want to see his dick, don’t you? You want to see how hard it gets and see if it can fit in your mouth.” She grins, “I hope it doesn’t disappoint you.” 

 

Weeks go by. 

Oliver drops by our house two to three times a week. Sometimes he spends a lot of time in the upstairs study with Dad, and sometimes he spends time in the kitchen with Mom. He doesn’t really talk to me much until it’s time to sit down for dinner. Both of my parents like Oliver, I think that’s clear to everybody, and Oliver practically basks in the attention. How could he be shy? 

“Oliver, have seconds!” My mother would say, already ladling more stew or whatever we happened to be having into his bowl. 

And Oliver, as if he’s memorized the lines of the play and is a pro at his part, would make a gesture that is distinctly Italian. But then, he never outright stops her either. “Mrs. P., you’re going to make me fat.” 

“Is that something someone like you worries about?” I say, before I can help myself and everyone at the table looks at me. Dad looks like he wants to chuckle and Mom doesn’t look like she has an opinion. Except she says --

“Elio, that’s not very polite.” 

“I don’t mean it impolitely,” I say in my own defense. “I genuinely want to know.” 

Oliver looks like he doesn’t know what to say. His expression goes one direction, and then another, and then another. Then he gives up and just laughs, “Well, of course I worry. I didn’t grow up svelte, skin and bones.” 

(Svelte, I like that word. I like that he says and thinks that about me.) 

For dessert, my mother serves us apple crumble and custard and I watch Oliver help himself to two pieces with big, generous heaping spoonfuls of custard. I wonder how worried he really is. 

Usually after dinner, Oliver gets ready to leave. He has to bus into the city again because it’s cheaper that way. But he doesn’t protest either when Dad starts calling him a taxi to the train station or just a taxi depending on the day. He stays late, and drinks too much of our digestifs. I think Dad is just relieved to have someone to drink with again, Mom doesn’t like it when he gives me too much alcohol or too many cigarettes. 

 

There comes a Thursday when Mom and Dad go all out and make pasta together. We don’t even own a pasta machine. (Mom’s a purist more than Dad; he’d once given her a pasta machine for Christmas and she got so offended she threw it out.) Making pasta is therefore an all-day affair at _chez_ Perlman. When Oliver shows up around four in the afternoon, he is more or less shooed away and told to help himself to whatever from our liquor cabinet. 

My room is right at the top of the stairs, between my parents’ master ensuite on the right and Dad’s study on the left, I have a habit of slightly leaving my door ajar so I hear him coming. I don’t think Oliver is a terribly subtle person. He’s holding a glass of sherry, filled generously to the brim. Dressed in a fitted button-down and dark-washed jeans, I think he’s glorious. I don’t even care if his dick is disappointing. 

Oliver does not knock, “I’m going to hang in here, okay?” 

“If you’d like,” I say. When I look at his sherry, I can’t help but add, “Good to see that you’ve learned the difference.” The fact that he’d asked for some armagnac before dinner a week before last had given me fits for days. 

He cuts his eyes at me, glaringly blue, but also not too seriously, “Are you ever going to let that go?” 

“No,” I grin at him with all my teeth showing. “It’s probably going to keep me in a good mood for another six days, at _least_.” 

He sits down on my bed right by my ankle. I am suddenly conscious about how little space there is on my mattress, but then I don’t move. I am good at staying still. 

“Are they always like that?” 

“Who, my parents? Yeah,” I shrug. “Why?” 

Oliver looks at me, smiles a bit of a half-smile, “You have no idea how lucky you are, do you?” 

I look at him, “Sure I do.” 

“No, you don’t,” he counters, a little smugly, as if his life experiences are inexplicably worth more than mine, which honestly should offend me more than it actually does. “Nobody’s parents are like that.” 

“Mine are,” I say. 

“I know, smart ass,” Very gently, Oliver pinches my ankle and the little flicker of pain goes to my dick. “Which is why I say you’re lucky. My parents aren’t anything like yours.” 

That hurt, but I so dearly want him to touch me again. Pasta keeps my parents busy. I think to myself. I can have Oliver close the door and then we have all the time in the world. 

“Will you close the door?” 

Oliver seems surprised at this request, but he complies. Sits back down, sips his too-full glass of sherry. I still think he’s a heathen. A part of me wants to ask exactly what his parents are like, (Dad has instilled in me a love and an obnoxious compulsion for details) but I don’t think that’s conducive to my wanting him to fuck me. So I save it for later. 

“...Are you seeing anyone?” I say instead. 

Oliver nearly chokes on his drink. 

“Did I say something?” 

Oliver recovers, just about, and empties the rest of the sherry down his throat. “Is that what this is? You’ve been eye-fucking me for weeks, and all you can come up with is ‘are you seeing someone’?” 

Oh, so he’s noticed. I also like the way he says _eye-fucking_ , separating the syllables like some sort of careful taxonomy. Eye. Fuck. Ing. 

I’ve never liked sherry, if I’m honest, but I like the way it clings to his breath. He catches my chin and I hold his gaze. 

“It feels to me like pertinent information,” I say. We’re eyefucking right now. I decide that I rather like eyefucking. It barely costs anything and I can practically do it anytime I damn well please. I can pluck the empty glass out of his hand and suck out the drops of sherry like some desperate idiot. I take care to stay still, because if I move, I’ll probably do something stupid. 

“Pertinent information,” Oliver repeats after me. “That is unbelievable sexy.” 

His face is still very close to mine. That’s another thing I’m going to remember, how Oliver’s mouth forms around the words _unbelievably sexy_. Possibly for more than six days. Possibly forever. I am good about obsessing about things for a very long time. Oliver just doesn’t know that yet. I twist around, so that I’m flat on my back, and look up at him. I want to say to him obscene things with my body. He just doesn’t know how much. My fingers are bolder than the rest of me and I grab a fistful of his shirt. Oliver’s shirt isn’t him, precisely, but it’s close enough. 

“...What is?” I breathe.

“How you always think you know things. That you know better. That you know best.” Oliver’s mouth is but a precarious inch from my skin and all that separates us is air. “Is there anything you don’t know?” 

I think that I don’t know what his dick looks like and if he lets me look at it, even for a moment, I’d feel sufficiently edified and learned. Because we are so close, I can see that he’s wearing a thin gold chain around his neck. When I hook my thumb around it to draw it out, I see that he’s wearing a Star of David. I have one too, but I don’t always wear it. 

Oliver untangles my fingers from his chain and tucks the chain back beneath his collar. There is plenty that I don’t know, I want to tell him. Then he lifts my shirt up, and presses his thumb into my belly button. I try to imagine that thumb pressing in all over the place everywhere (in my ass, say) and. 

And then he takes his hand away. 

“Oliver --” I start. 

“We should be good,” Oliver says. He gets up from my bed, and smoothes a hand over his shirt, as if trying to get rid of me, the way I touched it. “Besides, I doubt you’d want to pay my going rate.” 

Before I can ask him what he means, Oliver reaches to settle a hand on my head, putting even more distance between us. 

“Come downstairs for a drink, yeah? Keep me company.” He says heading out of my bedroom, as if this is his house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Passito is a straw wine (also known as a raisin wine) that is commonly served with desserts. Also, just in case you missed it, Elio makes fun of Oliver for wanting armagnac before dinner because it's a digestif rather than an aperitif. I am going to have so much fun with the Perlmans' liquor cabinet...


	2. Use It if You Got It

“I think,” says Marzia settling her foot in my lap, “that he is a prostitute.” She’s just painted her toenails a rather shocking shade of maroon and she likes having me blow on her freshly coated toes with cotton fluff still stuffed between them. Just because I asquience, she thinks I have a foot fetish. I have long since given up on trying to fight battles I can’t win. 

“He is _not_ ,” I say, because Oliver-as-a-prostitute is an image that doesn’t work for me on any level. I already think about him naked with other people in his bed. That he knows his way around the curve of somebody’s ass, that his dick has probably probed the most intimate, damp parts of many women. The mere idea of Oliver as a prostitute kills that romance completely and makes him a capitalist pig. 

Marzia’s attention is on her other big toe. She is incredibly meticulous about her toes, even though it is no longer summer. “If he isn’t, how do you explain his going rate?” 

“You could have going rates for lots of things. Car insurance, rent.” I muse, poking her ankle. “And he could be joking. Or speaking metaphorically, or...I don’t know, Marzia. But it could be lots of things. Could you imagine him standing on a street corner? Or with a coke habit?” 

“Darling,” Marzia gives me a look like she wants to hit me. “It’s the twenty-first century. He probably arranges things online. It’s not unheard of. Use it if you got it, _et cetera_.” 

_Et cetera_. Like it is really that simple. Marzia has her pick of boys, but at this point I think she must be willfully celibate. 

I think of Oliver at a computer arranging dates by the hour. I think of how long the line must be outside of the hotel room, and I imagine him pleasing all shapes and sizes. I think about my position in that line and whether he’d have any come left for me to lap up when it finally gets to be my turn. 

 

Like any reasonable person, I suppose I could just ask Oliver if he is a prostitute. After all, my last venture into his sex life hadn’t exactly been fruitless. I hadn’t received a clear answer about his availability as a prospective date, but it’d earned me the pressure of his thumb, which I still remember and treasure. Maybe if I ask him if he’s a prostitute, I’ll get something else. I would happily settle for a toenail skimming up my ankle up my thigh. 

To be honest, I don’t know if I’d want to date him in the traditional sense either. Oliver kind of looks like the type to use you up and throw you away (which I don’t consider further evidence of his alleged profession although Marzia would disagree with me). There’s no harm in that, I guess, using someone up and throwing them away. It shows a certain sort of strength, that you know what you want. To hell with other people and what they want. 

I don’t know that I always know what I want. That’s something else I try not to think about too much. 

My father gets an invitation to speak at a research workshop held at Brown about a week after Oliver had touched me in my room. It’s kind of become my new calendar. At dinner, over Persian-spiced lamb shanks and jewelled rice (“I’m in love, Mrs. P.!” Oliver declares with his mouth full and I should hate it more but I don’t,) my father asks if he’d like to tag along. 

“Are you kidding?” Oliver lights up after he swallows. “That would be amazing and a half, Samuel! Really?” 

Dad likes enthusiasm; he often tells me that passion and enthusiasm sometimes matters much more than being actually clever. I’ve always figured that for his very subtly telling me that I should get out of the house more. Make more friends. See more films. Something. 

Oliver’s also started to call my father by his given name rather than addressing him by his title. I don’t know how to feel about that, either.

I say, “You’ll just be used as a conference monkey. If you don’t make good espresso, it’s going to be like,” I cut a finger meaningfully across my throat and Dad rolls his eyes. 

“ _Elio_ ,” he says. “Stop that.” 

There is a socked toe near my ankle. I almost freeze up. 

Dad gives me a look, “Anyway, if you don’t mind sharing a room with Elio, you are more than welcome. We’ll put him on espresso duty instead. I’ve found that prickly people make better espresso.” 

Oliver looks me up and down and I feel painfully naked. His toe has moved away, “I’m sure I’ll live.” 

As soon as I can find some spit in my mouth I wet my lips. I think he’s still looking at me, “Me too.” 

 

It takes almost three hours to drive from our house to Brown, and we set out on a Thursday evening. As usual, Dad drives, Mom sits beside him with a map on hand (not a mobile one, no, we’re an old fashioned, traditionalist family). Oliver and I pile in the back and he is wearing a ridiculous coat. For one thing, it’s a proper winter coat zipped up and it’s not even November. 

“What is _this_?” I poke the part of coat covering his elbow. “You are not going to the Arctic Circle.” 

“Providence is north of Scarsdale,” Oliver reminds me, like I don’t know. “I’d still be wearing shorts in LA, okay? We don’t get winter back home.” 

“That’s just it,” I say. “It’s not even November. It’s the height of autumn.” 

Oliver gives me an unamused look. Dad must have seen his expression in the rearview mirror because he admonishes me, “Elio, _tais-toi_.” 

“It’s all right, Samuel,” Oliver says, like he’s some kind of saint. “I know he’s just teasing.” 

Inevitably, my mind goes to Oliver’s thumb and also his toe for good measure, even though I’d only felt the latter for less than a second. I think, _Fuck you_. He probably knows I’m thinking it. 

A long silence passes in the car and as we pass into Connecticut, Mom puts on her favorite recording of _Tosca_ , the one with Maria Callas, and sings along to “Vissi d’arte” when it comes up. She often does this when we’re in the car, but it’s not always _Tosca_ , sometimes it’s Mozart, Verdi. 

Oliver says, “ _Wow_.” 

Mom is always a little embarrassed -- no, that’s not quite right -- self-conscious, about the state of her voice. The joke is that screaming so much while giving birth to me ruined her vocal chords so she’s never gone back to opera since. 

Dad says, “Your voice is still star-quality, Annie.” 

“Of course you’d say that, Samuel,” but Mom is pleased and she leans over to give Dad a kiss. 

Oliver winces, and I touch his knuckles. He looks at me. 

“You’ll get used to it,” I mouth. 

“I don’t think I will,” he mouths back. But he doesn’t move his hand.

I settle my thumb between his first and second knuckle since he doesn’t stop me. I don’t have to be geedy. There’s plenty of time. Then I study Oliver’s good looking head atop of his still-ridiculous coat. 

“Why didn’t you go somewhere warmer if you hate the cold so much?” I ask. I congratulate myself on the question. It isn’t dirty, or sexy, and contains pertinent information. 

“Milani kept talking up New York,” Oliver shrugs. Dad’s mentioned a Milani before, I remember. “I was between here and UChic or Toronto. So I don’t think I applied anywhere warm to begin with.” He shifts so that my thumb now lives in the intimate space between his second and third fingers. The side of Oliver’s fingers graze my fingernail. I am glad suddenly, that Marzia gets on to me about clean nails. 

“I don’t know, Elio. Haven’t you ever wanted to try something new? Be someplace else?” 

I search his face for some sort of clue. I’m usually pretty good about picking up subtext, making sense of secret contexts that people don’t like me parsing out, but there’s nothing in Oliver’s smirk. It’s just a smug, empty, good-looking, _do you want a good fuck_ smirk. 

“I have books for that,” I say. 

Oliver snorts, “Of course you do.” 

 

We stop for dinner in New Haven at an oyster and raw bar right on the waterfront. Oliver has never had an oyster. 

“But,” he informs us with his mouth full. “This is dank, I’ll try anything once. I’d have oysters every day.” 

Mom has white wine and Oliver has a local craft beer. Dad and I both have pop, even though we take a moment longer after the bill’s been settled for Dad to have his cigarette. Oliver bums one off of him (“because why not?”) and I just stare. 

 

Apparently, the person running this workshop is a former Ph.D student of Dad’s who recently secured a tenure-track in the department. I think I remember her. She meets us outside of our B&B, which is a converted historic house from 1858, a great source of local pride. Nathalia remembers me, at least. She hugs me and I smell slightly cheap perfume. It’s a sign that she’s not gotten tenure yet, but she is getting there. Dad is good at telling when people will get places. 

“You look good, Elio,” she looks me up and down without eye-fucking me. “Bet you’re batting all the girls away with a stick.” 

Oliver makes a noise in his throat and I want to hit him. 

“Right, boys, we’re off.” Dad puts his arm around Mom and looks between me and Oliver. “You two going to be okay?” 

“Peachy,” I say. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t freeze to death or anything.” 

“Shut up.” 

I hug Mom, and then Dad. Oliver gets waves between them patting my shoulder, “See you in the morning.” 

 

We drag our suitcases to our room. I’ve stayed here before, but Oliver obviously hasn’t even though he doesn’t look like it, I am beginning to realize that he is basically impressed by everything. He touches everything. The cotton curtains, the old oak bedside table, the outline of the fireplace, and the vintage radio which is only ever there for kicks. I don’t think Oliver’s ever seen a fireplace. There are two twin beds and Oliver goes and puts his duffle on the one closer to the bathroom. Then he pauses and looks at me.

“Unless you want this one?”

I shrug, “I’m not picky.” 

Oliver shrugs off his coat and drapes it on the back of a chair. Then he gets a sweatshirt from his duffle and pulls it on. His sweatshirt boasts the letters UCLA in bold mustard yellow and he watches me watch him. 

“What, are you going to tell me that it’s bad form or something?” 

I’m not really staring at him for reasons that would be news, I don’t think, “ ‘S not that. There’s already seven colleges in this city anyway. It’s not going to be a big deal.” 

Oliver considers this, apparently finding it acceptable because he then shrugs again and flops down on the bed. Rather I wonder if he sleeps naked. Or maybe he’d think it was too cold. Maybe we can turn the heating all the way up, making it warm enough. 

I busy myself taking a few things out of my own suitcase. Books mostly. I’m meant to send off my all my university applications in a month and it’s a deal Dad and I have. I don’t have to worry about attending school so much if I can prove to him that I’m always learning on my own. The few pieces of clothing I have, I hang them up in the closet. 

“You’re here for three nights and you hang up your clothes?” 

I look at him, long-limbed, loose, and glorious. He’s staring up at the ceiling with his eyes wide open. Yet he still manages to look at me. 

“I always do,” I say. “Don’t you?” 

“What do you think?” 

“I can help you,” I start towards his suitcase. Maybe I can --

“No, smart ass. Don’t you dare touch my stuff.” 

I stop, “Do you want to go walk around somewhere?” 

He looks me up and down, and I don’t like this new feeling that his eyes give me, like all my clothes have fallen off. “With you?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“Tell you what,” Oliver sits up. “You go out for a walk, and if you come back in an hour I’ll come out with you. Maybe we can go get a drink or something, capeesh?” 

_Capeesh_ , I turn the word over in my head. It sounds ridiculous. Right up there with _dank_. I start to call these Oliver-words, patently ridiculous but I don’t mind when he says them. 

“Are you going to masturbate?” I say. Shot in the dark. As Oliver would say, why not? 

Oliver opens his mouth, and then closes it, “Yes. Not that it’s any of your fucking business. Get out.” 

I pick up my copy of _The Secret History_ and grab my coat. I admit, I can’t tell if he is joking. 

 

I read a chapter or two in the bar section of a burger restaurant nearby while nursing another can of pop. Then I wander around the block and call Marzia. 

“He is masturbating,” I say. 

She handily finishes for me, “With somebody.” 

“We’re in Rhode Island. He can’t have any clients in _Rhode Island_.” 

“The Internet exists, doofus, even if it doesn’t for you,” Marzia sighs. “How long until you’re allowed to be back?” 

I check my watch, “Ten minutes?” 

“So be early,” she says, as if I haven’t already thought of it myself. But her permission tips the balance in my head and I hang up full of confidence and resolve. 

 

“I bet you’re close, aren’t you, _ma crotte_?” 

Oliver is exactly where I left him. On his bed, clothed, and not masturbating. 

I snort, probably louder than I mean to. 

His head immediately whips towards me and something like five-ten seconds pass as we try to figure out if we understand each other or not. And then he motions towards me. The simple gesture pulls me to him as if his fingers have strings attached.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Oliver doesn’t really speak to me this way. He speaks to me in a lot of ways but not like this. Once I get close enough to him and his bed, there’s very clearly someone else (a woman, probably) moaning at the other end of his phone call. “If you be good and hold it for me I’ll fuck you so hard that you won’t even know how to put yourself back together. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

(“I _can’t_ ,” I think I hear the other voice say. “Please just let me --”) But then I stop paying attention to what the voice is saying because he’s undone the snap of my jeans like it’s not anything and I’m honestly still riding the high of _I’ll fuck you so hard that you won’t even know how to put yourself back together_ though it isn’t mine to take anywhere. Maybe I don’t need anything else from Oliver after all. Just this. This will sustain me for the rest of my life. 

“Be good, _crotte_ , be good. I’m going to go. And I want you to be nice and wet the next time I see you.” 

Part of me thinks that Oliver really isn’t very good at dirty talk, but then I concede that maybe he doesn’t need to be because he’ll just eyefuck them instead. I stand with my jeans undone just waiting. 

“I should have known you were going to do that,” Oliver says after he puts his phone away. 

“Yeah,” I say, but my voice cracks a little and I’m pretty sure that I’m red in all the places that count. “You probably should have.”

More looking. This time, this isn’t quite eyefucking. Maybe Oliver is making a list in his head. If I am lucky, he is asking questions like ‘is he pretty enough to fuck?’ Yes. ‘Good enough to chance the fact that he’s not eighteen?’ Probably. Yes. Of fucking course. 'Does he like me?' 'Does he want me?' Yes. Oh fucking yes. I bet he can see me shivering in anticipation. 

“Are you going to tell your parents?” Is what Oliver comes out with and I almost wilt. It is disappointingly unsexy. 

“What do you think?” I echo him from earlier and he looks distinctly unimpressed. 

“I think,” Oliver says and then sharply veers away. He gets up from the bed and buttons me up again, picking a piece of fluff from the edge of my sweater that I’m sure he’s just made up. My clothes are always impeccable. My mother is meticulous as a housekeeper. Maybe he just wants an excuse to touch me. I am fine with this. 

“I think we should go for a drink. Know anywhere good?” 

 

I still want to impress him, I think, despite everything. So I take him to an upscale cocktail bar that I’ve been once with my parents about a year and a half ago. The place is small and probably too datelike for the likes of Oliver and me, but I am now going to live my life as much as possible by ‘why not.’ An infallible Oliver-mantra. 

“This is,” Oliver looks around. He looks impressed, and maybe a little underdressed in his nonlocal university sweatshirt. I am not going to lie, I am both a little relieved and smug about that. 

“What?” I say. 

Before Oliver can speak, we get approached by a girl maybe a touch younger than Oliver with shocking pink hair. “Right, what can I get you?” And then she squints at Oliver’s sweatshirt with its ugly letters still visible through his ridiculous coat, “...Are you visiting from somewhere? I think I have a cousin who goes to UCLA.” 

Oliver has the decency to look slightly sheepish, “That obvious, huh?” He flits her a smile that’s just slightly sideways and I can tell that she’s somewhere between _oh God, again?_ and _actually, he’s kind of cute_. 

“I think it’s just your tan,” she shrugs. “Or your coat. It’s only October.” 

I snigger. She looks at me, and then at Oliver. Then the girl’s expression seemingly ricochets from halfway embarrassed back to professional neutrality in a blink, “I’m sorry, it’s just. I didn’t realize you were --” 

“We get that a lot,” I smile sweetly and curl a hand around Oliver’s elbow and press my thumb into his vein. 

 

“ _Do_ we get that a lot?” Oliver fixes me with a slightly exasperated look as we are finally shooed away from the crowded bar to a table in the corner next to a window. 

“I rescued you,” I say fairly, guiding my straw aimlessly along the rim of my Forbidden Fruit (which has, tequila, sherry, and cava 12). Who am I kidding, I picked it for its name, you should have seen Oliver’s face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so scandalized. 

“You’re unhappy with me flirting with her?” Oliver is having another beer, a pint of something called Half Full Sensible Decision, which is almost as profound. I didn’t peg him as a cocktail kind of guy anyway. 

I shrug, “Or maybe I just wanted a drink. Being with you means people get to guess at whether or not I’m jailbait. Fifty-fifty.” 

Oliver looks between me and my cocktail, “You little shit.” 

I just smile. 

We drink slowly, the place fills up with young professionals and students. A lady comes over and puts her drink down on our table and wanders away again. Oliver has a split-second to make the same decision I do, whether or not to check out her ass. I think we arrive at different answers. 

For someone who’s just been caught doing whatever it was that he was doing, Oliver looks remarkably calm. Maybe he’s just waiting for me to lose it first. I am not that far off. However, I have the upper hand, I think, because I have been obsessing over these questions for weeks. I decide to hit him from out of left field. Gain back some advantage that he’s taken. 

“Did you learn to speak French in Belgium?” 

In the dim light, Oliver’s forehead crinkles and his eyes seem to get even bluer, “Whatever gave you that idea?” 

“Because if you didn’t,” I sip my drink. “You wouldn’t have called the poor girl on the other end your _crotte_. That’s only acceptable in Belgian slang. The rest of the time you’re basically calling her a piece of shit. What does she think you’re calling her?” 

“No clue,” Oliver shrugs. “She only cares that it’s French.” He takes a sip of his own beer, “And I’ve never been to Belgium, but my instructor for one of my classes in my last year was from Liège. I quite liked her accent.” 

Immediately, my mind goes to the lady philology professor. I can’t bear to have them be the same person. 

“Did you sleep with her, too?” 

Under the table, Oliver’s hand touches my knee, and then the inside of my thigh. “Why are you so invested in who I sleep with?” 

Emboldened by his daringness, I slip my hand under the table too and grip his wrist so he can’t move his hand. He can break my hold so easily if wants to, but I hope and pray. For the moment, Oliver doesn’t move. I think he is waiting. 

“I,” I suck up more of my drink. I watch my drink fill up with ice instead of color. “So I like you. Not in the usual way.” 

“What way, then?” 

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say. “I just didn’t want to scare you.”

Oliver laughs. It’s mocking and wonderful, “You don’t scare me, Elio.” He rarely uses my name. Usually it’s some variety of ‘smart ass’ or ‘genius.’ Elio. È. Lee. Oh. It’s such a small thing, I divide it up in my head and make it even smaller. “It’s one of the things you’ll learn if you ever figure out how to know yourself.” He drains his beer and taps the rim of my cocktail glass. 

“The same again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an early update, I suppose. I've decided to put all of the chapters of Impromptu up tomorrow at some point because if they keep sitting on my hard drive I'll probably never stop making weird little edits. So hopefully I'll start updating Sugar regularly from now on. As you can see, it's got a tiny bit longer, but I've just finished writing Chapter 9, so I am in good stead! 
> 
> I apologize profusely if I've got any readers who speak Belgian French - I've read this somewhere and double checked with a friend, but at the end of the day, this might be somewhat inaccurate anyway: 'ma crotte' is apparently a term used in Belgian slang to rudely refer to a lady (English equivalents 'bird, broad ect'). The rest of the time it means shit or turd, from what I understand. If anyone can shed anymore light on this please don't hesitate to let me know! 
> 
> Maria Callas' [Vissi d'arte](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLR3lSrqlww) is amazing. [Lyrics](https://lyricstranslate.com/en/vissi-darte-i-lived-art.html) are slightly relevant, maybe. 
> 
> Lastly, I heavily plug Donna Tartt's novel _The Secret History_ about a group of elitist students who study Ancient Greek and Latin and end up getting in all sorts of trouble and nonsense. It is an amazing read!
> 
> Can I just say you guys are absolutely amazing? Because you are! I hope you enjoy xx


	3. A Taste for Weird

“You do, right?” 

We are lying on our respective borrowed beds with aggressively-fresh smelling sheets, as if just daring us to do something, anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Oliver fiddling with his phone, a pillow separating the curve of his back and the headboard. He’s still in his UCLA sweater and when I speak, he doesn’t look at me. 

“Do what?” 

“Fuck people, and they pay you.” I say. I’ve only had two cocktails, but I’m feeling pleasantly lazy and my head feels like it’s half gone for a swim. Maybe it’s dipped in a toe, testing the waters. Maybe part of this is Oliver’s doing. 

Oliver gives me a look, as if he can’t decide if I’m trying to rile him up or if I’m only stupid. 

“Because,” I press on. “Your dirty talk can use some improvement. I hope you fuck people.” 

“Well,” Oliver sighs. “If I’m here, my dick can’t very well be in New York, can it? She wouldn’t let me cancel. So.” 

I turn a page in my book. Francis Abernathy is testing the waters too; he’s sliding his toe up Richard’s ankle, invitingly, wondering if -- 

“Have you ever considered doing pornography?” I ask him. It’s a bit of a non-sequitur. Just something that comes to mind. Why not? I can get the hang of this. 

Oliver outright laughs, “No. I don’t like sharing myself with that many people. Not that I haven’t been asked.” 

I turn another page. I can feel the heat of his gaze, but this time, I know more so I feel a little bit less naked. 

“You want to ask me, don’t you?” 

I give him a gaze as even as I can manage; later, I’ll remember to be proud of myself, “Ask you what?” 

Staring. Descending into eyefucking, maybe just a little bit. 

Finally, I cede defeat and put my book across my crotch completely on purpose, “Okay. Why?” 

Oliver stretched out again on his bed, but he turns sideways so he is looking straight at me, “Don’t you understand how expensive it is to live in New York? If I didn’t I’d probably never leave my apartment, which, as you can imagine, is a bit of a shitheap.”

My parents have always had money for as long as I can remember. Dad’s family dealt diamonds for the longest time and Mom’s younger sister used to be a fashion model. A cousin recently sent us a picture of him and newest catch (of possibly an ambiguous gender) on their yacht. Oliver watches my face as I process this information and snorts, “No, of course you don’t.” 

“You’ve got teaching, don’t you?” I say. I imagine his students in the front row fawning over him. Clearly, Oliver has learned more than philology from his favorite lady professor. 

“That pays _pennies_ ,” Oliver says. 

“Oh,” I open my mouth and close it. “Are you really…” Is there a good way to word this? He seems to be a smidge sensitive about it, “are you really that poor?” I don’t know anyone who studies Classics to be ‘that’ poor and it’s the qualifier that is important. 

“Am I ‘that poor’?” Oliver echoes me. “I can’t believe you’ve just asked me that.” 

“Are you offended?” Fair play to him if he is, I suppose it wasn’t the politest question. My parents would be scandalized at such behavior and they are good with pretty much everything except rudeness. 

Oliver considers this. A shrug, “Nah. But no, I suppose I’m not. It’s fashionable to appear that way. I’d like to be fashionable, sometimes.” 

“Your sweatshirt is ugly.” I feel compelled to tell him in the name of fashion, of course and not out of my own selfish curiosity. 

Oliver looks at me. I don’t mean to challenge him in that moment (there is nothing to challenge, his sweatshirt _is_ ugly as anything) but I can see in his eyes that is how he takes it. In the next moment, he’s pulled the sweatshirt over his head. Underneath, he’s wearing a t-shirt and why yes, I am going to stare at Oliver’s biceps as long as they are visible. 

“Jesus. It’s fucking freezing.” 

“No one told you to strip,” I say reasonably, feeling a bit pleased with myself. This is probably a good time to go back to my book. 

 

“ _Why_ do it, though?” I say, sometime later, when we’re both dressed for bed. Me in pyjamas that he makes fun of to get it out of the way, and Oliver is wearing his UCLA sweatshirt again, but he’s changed out of his jeans for tracksuit bottoms. I’m ninety percent certain that he’s not wearing underwear. 

Oliver switches off the lamp on his side and climbs in under his covers. He turns away from me, on his other side. “I’ve already told you why. Financial gains, because I am not quite ‘that poor’ but still pretty fucking poor.” 

I am probably never going to hear the end of that. I do hope Oliver isn’t actually offended, or that if he is, he’d have the decency to tell me. 

“I know why,” I say, reaching for my own lamp. “But, aren’t you afraid of being beat up or something?” I am not Marzia and therefore, am unaware of the ins and outs of how to be a twenty-first century whore. Most of my knowledge of the industry as such is drawn from bits of pop culture that I probably shouldn’t have paid attention to in the first place. I am pretty sure escorts or prostitutes (or whatever label Oliver happens to prefer for himself) sometimes get beat up. 

He laughs, “I’m six-five and 220. No I don’t worry, particularly. And most of my clients are vetted through a website. I ask for references.” 

I lie down, squirming a bit to get comfortable, “You aren’t going to tell me which one, are you?” 

“Nope,” Oliver aspirates the ‘p’ and I think about him aspirating around my dick. “Just go to sleep, smart ass.” 

 

We meet my parents for breakfast, and now that Oliver and I have a secret, it’s like he’s touching me all the time. 

The plan is for me to spend the morning with Mom while Dad is giving his keynote and Oliver is off being a conference monkey, trying to make his mark among workshop-goers with his espresso. I don’t mind. Mom and I often spend time like this, waiting for Dad. 

We rent bikes and after some consideration, pick one that follows the river a little ways out of the city center. 

“It’s nice to see you in a good mood, Elio,” Mom tells me nonchalantly as we follow the river around a gentle bend. “I was beginning to worry about you.” 

“Meaning?” 

“You’re basically the picture of teenage angst darling,” I can hear her shrugging somewhere not far behind me. It’s what opera does to her, I think, every word is more or less eponymous of a gesture. 

“Mom. I do not angst,” I say. For one thing, I think that word is crude and ergo, it can’t possibly apply to me.

Now she catches up to me and gives me one of those looks. A look that clearly says sons hide nothing from their mothers, and not at all from lack of trying. 

I need to change the subject, “Didn’t you angst?” 

“Sure I did,” Mom says. I’ve asked her this before but she’s also patient the way Dad and I aren’t. “But I was touring by the time I was your age. To angst you need time to _think_. I was lucky that I even had time to eat or sleep. You should have seen your grandmother that one time I came back _sans_ fifteen pounds. No, on this, you take after your father more. He had oodles of time.” 

I’ve heard this story before, but Mom doesn’t seem to mind telling it again and again, and I find the rhythm soothing. 

 

I am not the only one in a good mood. Oliver seems to have survived his first day as Dad’s preferred conference monkey and when we get back to our room, I see him fetch a black notebook from his duffle. I turn on the fire, and then I get back into bed. 

“You enjoyed it then?” 

Oliver doesn’t even look at me, “No one made fun of my espresso. If that’s what you mean.” 

There’s a silence. 

I settle in with my book. There’s something calming about watching Oliver work. Like he really enjoys his work I also like the fact that he writes things longhand and were I really bold, I bet I could have crawled into bed with him to figure out what his script looks like. Perhaps long loops, sharp no-nonsense corners. 

“You’re drooling.” 

My hand goes immediately to my mouth. Dry. Thank fuck. “I am not.” 

Oliver grins, severely wicked. “Still. I got you.” 

“I am only fantasizing about your hand,” I say. “Writing, asshole.” 

“My,” Oliver’s expression isn’t sure how to arrange itself again and even at a distance, I can tell that his facial muscles are working overtime to get him back to where he thinks he ought to be. And since Oliver prides himself on _knowing_ this must be a terrible thing. “ _Handwriting_. What the fuck. You _do_ need to get laid, you’re like actually a creepy little savant.” 

Savant. Svelte. More Oliver-words. I shrug and turn the page. I only look up when his black book thumps near my big toe. 

“I can look?” 

“Well, there’s nothing sexy in there,” Oliver stretches out on his back and rests his head in the crown of his knotted fingers. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

I pick up the book. It does seem to be full of notes and studies-related musings, not all of which make sense to me. On the latest page, Oliver has written: 

_For the early Greeks, Heidegger contends, this underlying hidden-ness is constitutive of the way beings are, not only in relation to themselves but also to other entities generally. In other words, they do not construe hidden-ness merely or primarily in terms of entities' relation to human beings ??????_

Because I know he must be looking at me, I don’t trace his writing. It’s defied my imaginations of a dignified hand, anyway. Oliver’s letters are exceedingly average, a little messy, and masculine. The bars of his t’s do tend to slant upwards indicating “a buoyant, sunny disposition.” (Courtesy of Marzia’s ever surprising subscription to _Cosmopolitan_.) 

“What does this even mean?” 

“The last bit?” Oliver is on his phone again, “no fucking clue. Some poor kid presented it to be shopped. No one could make heads or tails of it. And God knows your dad gave it a real chance.” 

“So why’s it in your book?” 

“I found it interesting. It’s badly written, but it’s interesting.” 

I toss back the book, and Oliver manages to catches it before it hits his mattress. Then he says, “I’m waiting on pins and needles. Laud me for my handwriting, oh, asshole creepy savant.” 

I snort, “Exceedingly average, masculine. Exhibits buoyancy. Like a pair of tits.” 

“Fuck you.” 

We don’t speak for the rest of the night. Oliver doesn’t ask me to leave the room so he can masturbate, either. 

 

The workshop ends on the Saturday afternoon. All of us, Dad, Mom, Oliver, and I attend the dinner held at a local restaurant later that evening. Oliver is sandwiched between Nathalia and someone from Philosophy, a man with a gnarled head that looks like it ought to be part of a tree. 

Mom laughs at this, but pinches my elbow, “ _Elio_. Don’t be gauche.” 

“I bet you’re thinking it too,” I say. 

She winks at me, “I am not telling.” 

Professor somebody or the other’s wife gets Mom’s attention to ask her about singing in _La Traviata_. I am left to my own devices and I watch as Oliver empties the rest of the red wine into his own glass. 

 

I wake up to retching. The bathroom light is on, and I am drowsy, so it takes me a moment to realize that it’s Oliver on the other side of the door. Six-five, 220 Oliver puking his guts out. By virtue of having continental, polite parents, I’ve never vomited like that in my life. I have never been prouder of myself. 

The retching continues with no sign of stopping. My watch tells me that three long minutes have passed by. I don’t think I can stand this. 

Finally, I get up and knock on the door, “You alive in there?” 

The retching stops just long enough for Oliver to say, “Go away.” 

I try the door, finding it unlocked, I open it a crack. 

“Elio, I said go _away_.” 

“You woke me up,” I say, politely averting my eyes although now that the door is open the smell of alcohol laced puke assaults my nose. “You might as well let me help you. ‘S not like I am going back to sleep.”

Then I look anyway. Why not? Oliver is draped over the toilet still in his conference dinner clothes. He’d looked good when he’d left the room and now he just looks wrecked and wretched. There is a clear stain on the front of his shirt and he is very pale. Buttons have come undone, and his Star of David is dangling dangerously close to -- 

“How much more did you have to drink?” 

“After you and yours left, Kapinski said we should hit a wine bar. So we did.” Oliver retches again, “I think we had about three bottles of sparkling. Maybe four.” 

“Ah,” Kapinski. I search my memory and come up blank. Must be bark-face. His suit said to me at dinner that he could probably afford three maybe four bottles of sparkling. Then I remember that I am meant to helping Oliver rather than lecturing him so I go to the mini-fridge in the room where there is bottled water. 

“...Drink. You’re probably hilariously dehydrated.” 

Oliver fixes me with a look. A slightly exasperated look, but he takes the bottle and uncaps it. Drinks, winces, “You’re finding this hilarious, aren’t you?” 

“A little,” I admit. “But mostly I’m a bit in awe. I’ve never seen someone so drunk.” 

“Just wait until you get to college,” Oliver tries to smirk, but mostly fails. 

“Looks like you’re out of practice,” I say, kindly and ironically at the same time. “Come on, you can’t sleep in here.” Somehow, after heaving himself up from the ground and washing his hands, gurgling a mouthful from the bottle, Oliver leans on me just a little we make our way over to his bed. He falls on the mattress face-first. And since he’s holding my elbow, I fall too, onto the back of his shoulder, which is thankfully puke-free. 

We stay still. 

“You should take off your shirt,” I say. “I’m pretty sure you have vomit on the front.” 

“You just want to see me naked,” Oliver mumbles. He sets his hand on my head and I might have recoiled, except I remember he washed his hands. 

Or I just don’t want you to stink up the room,” I am, however, not going to deny that his hand in my hair is nice. “Or worse, if you stain the mattress, we might have to pay a fine.” 

“Ugh,” I’m about ninety percent sure that groan is meant to make me feel sorry for him as Oliver struggles to roll over. I shift, but I’m still on the bed with him. I have to react quickly because he stretches out and would have smacked me in the face. In the dark, Oliver’s eyes find me, “...Don’t take advantage of me?” 

“No, Mr. Six-Five and 220. I wouldn’t dream of it.” I undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt and push the fabric off his shoulders. But everything about Oliver is still to-proportion and Grecian and maybe I. It’s purely for reasons of instrumental convenience that I find myself straddling his hips as I do this. 

Then Oliver, _sans_ shirt and possibly still drunk, touches the edge of my pyjamas. “Thanks, buddy.” 

 

“‘Buddy,’ though,” I make a face. “That’s like something you’d call a dog.” I say to Marzia a few days later.

“Well, you are basically humping his leg,” she’s mostly not paying me any mind, buried in an old Penguin copy of _Wuthering Heights_. She likes to think of herself from time to time as a happy Goth. I have no idea what that means. I’ve told her this before and she’s chided me for having insufficient imagination. If anything, she thinks I ought to get it, I obsess over contradictions, “It must be very confusing for poor Oliver.” 

“Mar-zia.” 

She sighs, “Do you want me to look for his website?” 

“I,” it takes me a moment, to realize what Marzia is asking me. I’ve thought about it, of course, but I don’t like the Internet. There’s wireless throughout our house, of course, and Dad keeps a computer for work things which I also use for school from time to time whenever I need to type things up. My endeavors and intentions towards Oliver are probably not appropriate for Dad’s computer. I know this, “...Can you do that?” 

“I can do anything,” Marzia smiles sideways with all of her teeth. “But no promises if he’s using another name. You know, like in pornography. Maybe we can find a clip.” 

“Oliver doesn’t do pornography,” I say. 

Marzia fixes me with a long look, “And you know this how?” 

“He says he doesn’t want to share himself with that many people,” I say. “But he was also quick to tell me he’s no stranger to being um, recruited.” There is probably a more industry-appropriate term for that, but fuck if I know. 

Marzia makes me reach for her iPad on the floor; after I hand the device over, she pulls her legs up and leans the screen against the slant of her thighs. I lean against her shoulder. 

“No wonder you like him so much.” She chides me as she pulls up the screen of a search engine. 

I think about protesting. There are things about Marzia’s pronouncement that are patently false right off the bat. The glaring thing being I don’t _like_ Oliver, at least, not usually. He knows that; I’ve contextualized it for him. Whether or not he understands it in the right way is not something I don’t care about yet. At the end of the day, it does seem like too much trouble to explain it to Marzia. She’ll probably call me overdramatic, again. 

“What do you mean?” Still, I can’t help myself. 

“You’ve so got a taste for weird,” Marzia says, a little unkindly but probably in the way that I deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! I have a Tumblr, it's @medtnersonata. it's a sad little empty space at the moment, but if you'd like to chat hmu there!
> 
> Not sure what's happened to my notes recently, but hopefully it can still be puzzled out. Not much to say for this bit except that obvious creative liberties are taken re: Oliver's side hustle (ha), and cookies for those who can spot a reference from _The Social Network_! 
> 
> As ever, thank you all so much. I am having such a blast writing this, and it's awesome to hear that you're enjoying it too! This is probably going to follow a more lax update schedule around 2-4 days per chapter.


	4. I Fink U Freeky

For some inexplicable reason, Oliver is nicer to me after our trip to Brown. I’m kidding. I know why, but I don’t know if I’m just a glutton for punishment or what. It’s the truth; I didn’t know that he’d be nicer enough for me to actually notice. Now, between being in the study with Dad, and being the kitchen with Mom, I make the cut too and there’s a little bit of time for me. We don’t do much, sometimes he just sits in my room and reads. Or we sit downstairs. We do a lot of sitting, with intermittent eyefucking, but only sometimes. 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

I have my headphones on, trying to puzzle out one of the final drafts of my college application essay before I have to type it up on Dad’s computer. I’m only halfway paying attention to Oliver today, but I’m pretty sure he’s just asked me if I was seeing anyone. I take off my headphones and settle them on my stomach. 

“...What?” 

Thankfully, Oliver is not sitting next to me on my bed. He’s sat at my desk, with his black book and an worn-looking edition of Heraclitus. Most of its pages are dog-eared, I can see that even from the vantage point of my bed.

“I said,” and his words slow a beat or two as if he really thinks I’m slow, “are you seeing anyone? You’ve asked me. I think it’s fair.” 

“As I recall,” I glance at him. “You didn’t answer when I asked. You just accused me of eyefucking you.” 

Oliver makes a sound in his throat. It’s a sound that I neither recognize nor understand. “Would you like me to answer you now?” 

I consider this, and decide to hedge my bets, “If you’d like to.” 

If Oliver is disappointed by this answer, there’s no indication of it in his voice or his expression, “I only see people sometimes. Who don’t pay, I mean.” 

I have money, I think idly, and I can probably pay Oliver’s going rate, whatever it might be. Fuck him, for thinking I can’t afford it. Marzia’s first deep dive into the world of high-class escort websites hadn’t exactly turned out anything resembling Oliver. But maybe I’m not meant to tell him that. Marzia hadn’t looked particularly impressed when I tried to tell her that the only other thing I know about him besides his name, is the fact that he is six-five and 220. And the fact that his knowledge of various liquors according to when they should be drunk is shaky, which means to me, that he can’t be too high class. Marzia hadn’t been impressed with that either and called me a snob, which I deserve, too. 

“I’m rather single,” I say. 

“What does that mean, rather single?” Oliver looks at me. 

I shrug. 

For whatever reason, this compels Oliver to leave his (my) chair and come sit by me on the bed. I shift only slightly to make sure he’s got enough room. 

We don’t touch, until Oliver notes the noise coming out my headphones and frowns, “That’s not Bach.” 

“Nope.” I aspirate my ‘p’ too. I wonder if he ever thinks about my aspirating around his prick. “I can’t while I’m studying.” 

“May I?” He puts his hand on my belly. 

He’s not -- “Sure.” 

Oliver takes my headphones and puts them on. After his expression wanders a bit like someone trying to select a song from a too-long playlist, he finally settles on mild disbelief. And then maybe Oliver looks a little impressed. I think. I can hope.

“You are like the last person I expect to listen to Die Antwoord.” 

_I fink u freeky and I like you a lot_  
_I fink u freeky and I like you a lot_  
_I fink u freeky and I like you a lot_  
_I fink u freeky and I like you a lot_

“Why?” 

“It’s,” now it’s Oliver’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know, it’s cool. Surprising.” 

“I like it when they speak Afrikaans,” I say. “Their aesthetic is also interesting.” Then his expression changes up again and I wish I hadn’t said anything. 

“Never mind,” Oliver laughs. He moves to set the headphones on my head. I don’t mind. He’s recently had a cigarette. I can smell it. “Maybe it’s not that surprising.” 

I wonder if Oliver thirsts for the unexpected because nothing surprises him anymore. I’m a little bit like that. I reach up a hand and wrap it around his throat. I can feel his heartbeat when I press down lightly on his pulse, it’s quick, but steady. How many times has he had sex this week? I don’t squeeze, and he doesn’t move. 

“I think I can surprise you,” I say. 

_Shit this motherfucking beat is nice_  
_Back in the day them wankies_  
_Didn’t wanna believe in us_  
_Little did they know that they was in for a mutherfucker big surprise_

“Yeah?” Oliver moves, but into my grip, rather than away from it. 

“Boys!” Mom’s voice floats up the stairs from far away somewhere. “Dinner’s ready!” 

 

I wonder if that’s something Oliver does, let people choke him. It probably doesn’t bother him the way it bothers most people because as he is so fucking fond of reminding me every time he walks into a room, he is six-five and 220. 

Over dinner, Dad asks me how my college essays are going. I’ve only got two weeks or so left, after all. Today, we’re having roast chicken with mashed sweet potatoes and brussel sprouts. I keep waiting for Oliver to tell us that he’s never had brussel sprouts or something equally silly, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“It’s going okay,” I say. “I’m stuck on the last paragraph. But I should be able to type up next week.” 

“Well, let us know if we can look anything over,” says Mom, helping Oliver to more sweet potato. 

“Or I could,” Oliver offers. 

“Could?” In my head, Oliver could stand to do a lot of things. I am momentarily confused. 

“Look at your essay,” Oliver clarifies with his mouth full. “If you want. I did two years in admissions.” 

“Why do you make it sound like you’ve been to prison?” 

“It was kind of,” Oliver shrugs and reaches for the carafe to refill his glass. “It was very boring. Anyway, only if you’d like.” 

 

The next time he’s come around, I’ve made up my mind.

“Here,” I shove two pieces of loose leaf with both sides filled in Oliver’s face. He’s smoking out on the porch before having to join Dad in the study, I think. “Don’t blow on it, it’s my only copy.” 

Sticking the cigarette in his mouth, Oliver takes the papers from me, “Does that ever worry you? That it might get damaged, go missing, whatever?” 

“It’s mostly in my head,” I say. 

“Fair,” Oliver shrugs. He sits down on Dad’s chair and before I think about it too much, I sit down too, on one of the armrests. His elbow is right by my hip, but neither of us say anything. 

I watch him read. My writing is neat; he won’t have anything to complain about. There’s no gel in his hair today, maybe he was in a hurry. I think I can get away with it, so I lean in, put my nose into his hair. He’s shampooed recently. 

“Who are you?” 

I don’t move. He’ll stop me if he doesn’t want anything. In the meantime, I am going to stay right where I am. “...What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” Oliver has moved, so my lips are against his temple. “I’m guessing you’re writing about a time that you’ve had a unique experience? The contextualization is great, don’t get me wrong and you must be the only teenager out there who can while away a whole paragraph on a fucking peach. It’s very Virginia Woolf. Some people would appreciate it. But it doesn’t tell me anything about you. Smart kids are a dime a dozen, and that’s the con. That doesn’t sell anymore. They want smart little assholes with copious amounts of personality. That it pops off the page.” 

“Are you calling me boring?” I move away. 

“No,” Oliver turns to face me and he takes his cigarette out of his mouth. It’s almost to its end anyway. “But I am saying that despite being a very clear piece of navel gazing about the Italian countryside, I don’t see you. Or, I barely see you. Why a peach?” 

“Dad and I planted it together, when we first bought the house there,” I say. “I don’t know, the first time I ate one from our tree, I was moved, I guess. I’m not moved by much.” In that moment, I don’t think I know anything about myself. 

His face looks like I’ve just told him something secret. Intimate. Although I haven’t. I’ve just told him a silly old story about eating a peach that’s probably going to be lost in the pile of papers on some dean of admissions’ desk. Oliver moves and stabs out his cigarette in the ashtray Dad always keeps nearby. 

“Move me,” says Oliver. He hands me back my papers and goes inside. 

 

Marzia has worked it out with her mother that she’ll take a gap year when she graduates. The plan is that she’ll go stay with an aunt who teaches at the Sorbonne in Paris, maybe work in a pastry shop, be generally lazy. What this means is that she doesn’t have to worry about college applications yet and has all the time in the world to laugh at me. 

“Move me,” Marzia intones lowly, trying to catch Oliver’s voice in her own. She’s wholly unsuccessful but when I frown at her, she giggles -- cackles, even. “Look at your face!” 

I am not sure my face exhibits anything but unamusement. Severe unamusement, “Shut up.” 

“Seriously though, I think you’re overthinking it,” she pokes my ankle with her finger. “You think feelings to death, Elio. No wonder they show up like Virginia Woolf on the page.” 

“Are you taking his side?” 

Marzia gives me a bit of an exasperated look, “Of course not. But maybe he has a point, that is all I am saying. You think so much that it’s barely you at all, in the end.” 

 

I write my essay over. I start more sentences with I. I take out two quotations from Baudelaire that now seem excessive and take away from my personality. I buy a bag of peaches. It’s not the same. When Oliver hangs out in my room, I don’t wear headphones anymore. Or maybe I should. 

“Fuck,” I say. 

Oliver looks up from my desk, “Okay?” 

“No.” I feel like flicking my pen in his direction. This is all his fault. 

“What’s up?” Except this time, he doesn’t move to sit by me. Maybe Oliver’s learned his lesson too. 

“What did you write about?” 

He looks at me, as if he’s trying to decide if it’s a trick question. If it’s really about sex instead, “I don’t remember, that was like seven years ago.” Then he clicks his fingers, “Oh, I know. I wrote about wanting to have dinner with Heraclitus. I emphasized that we’d have lots of wine. And then I argued it wouldn’t count as underaged drinking because I’d travel back in time in the name of authenticity and he wouldn’t have to come to me. I wanted it to be all above board. A real learning experience.” 

“...Really?” I barely believe it. 

“Yes, really. Why? Too erudite for me?”

I stare back at him, “I don’t think you’re not erudite, you know. And that does sound very like you, that essay.” Which is probably the point. 

Oliver thinks for a moment, “Are you upset with me? For what I said, about your essay?” Now he comes and sits and I move to make room. “Maybe I was a bit harsh. It’s not a bad essay. You can probably walk in anywhere with it.” 

“Are you paying me a compliment?” I say. 

Oliver shrugs, “You’re a clever kid. Granted, everybody probably tells you that.” He settles his hand on my shoulder, shifts, and presses his thumb between my shoulder blades. 

I make a sound. It’s embarrassing, like a whine. Even when I’m not looking at him, I can feel him smiling. Like he’s won something, the fucker. Then Oliver just pats my head. 

“I’m going to check on dinner.” 

 

“You’re looking for who?” The girl who opens the door is dressed like a playboy bunny. Complete with a fluffy tail that’s shedding, at least, that’s from what I can tell. From behind her, someone tall, wearing a cowboy hat and a mask steps out in the hallway adjusting his jeans. 

“Oliver?” I desperately want to run away. I want to run away, but Marzia has me in an iron cast grip. She’s never met Oliver before and insisted that we take him up on his invitation to the Halloween party held at his shitheap apartment. I was halfway thinking my parents might refuse to let Oliver invite me given what certain parties translate to, but no, they are thrilled to have me out of the house. 

So this is why we’re here now and I am not happy. 

The girl also looks a bit drunk, “Who?” 

“Oliver? He lives here. I think.” 

“Oh, okay, hang on,” she ambles away. There’s loud poppy music blasting from the inside, but I think I hear Oliver’s name being shouted a couple of times. I think this is an incredibly apt time to go -- but Marzia doesn’t let me.

“If you hate it, we’ll go after like an hour or something,” she says. “But we at least have to stay for a little while.”

“Says _who_?” I hiss. “I see him nearly every day.” 

“So sue me, I kind of want to see who you’re obsessed with?” 

“I am not obsessed,” I say. “I’m just --” 

“Elio! You’ve made it!” The cowboy from before comes to the door and yes, it is Oliver and yes, he looks like he’s had a couple and the mask makes his eyes look even bluer than I have ever seen them. “Didn’t think you were going to show up.” 

“Oh, he wasn’t,” Marzia grins. “But I made him. Hi, I’m Marzia.” 

Oliver appraises her for a moment, but I don’t think he’s mentally undressing her. At least, I hope not, “Hey.” 

Marzia is costumed as Minnie Mouse complete with a pair of ears that are at least five years old, but I am not dressed as anything. I am not a Halloween person. If I wasn’t here, I’d probably be bullied into putting on some sort of ridiculous onesie to hand out candy with my parents. I am not sure where I’d rather be. Maybe neither of those places. 

“Where’s your costume?” Oliver looks at me. 

“I’ve come as a person who doesn’t particularly want to be here?” 

“Don’t be a smart ass, here,” Oliver lets us inside, but as I pass through the door he unceremoniously plonks his hat on my head. “Anyway, help yourselves. There’s a tub of pretty lethal jungle juice in the living room, but there’s like wine and stuff in the kitchen. We’ve ordered pizza, but y’know.” 

“Who,” I look up at him, “are you supposed to be? Zorro?” 

“The Lone Ranger,” Oliver corrects me. 

“Oh,” I say. Maybe there’s someone around here dressed as sexy Tonto, who knows. 

Marzia is rummaging around in her bag, “We took this from the cabinet.” It’s a bottle of armagnac that’s only got a few inches left. Dad had said we could take it. I should be more disturbed that my parents have allowed me to come to this party swimming with booze and probably other things too. But they trust me. They always have. More importantly, maybe they trust Oliver. 

“Great, we can use this to top off the jungle juice,” says Oliver, taking it from her. 

“That’s a Delord,” I say. “You are not putting that in with slop.” I’ve never had jungle juice, but I’m pretty sure it’s slop. 

Maybe I’ve said that a touch too loud because another girl, dressed in a fairly revealing nurse’s outfit complete with heels that look a bit dangerous, pokes her head out of what I assume is the living room, “Did someone just diss my jungle juice?” 

“This kid,” Oliver leans his elbow on my shoulder, “But ignore him, Chiara, he’s used to having dessert wine with dessert.” 

 

Chiara, I soon learn, is one of Oliver’s roommates and sleeps with him sometimes. She tells me this over jungle juice in a plastic cup. 

“But we’re not like, together together or anything.” 

I really want to leave, but I seem to have lost Marzia. It would be weird if I left without her. So for the time being I bide my time and pretend that I’m drinking her horrible booze and watching as Oliver flits from person to person. He’s comfortable, seems to know everyone. I am still wearing his cowboy hat.

“Don’t you want to be?” I find myself saying. 

Chiara studies me, like I’m some sort of specimen. I study her too, like I am trying to imagine how her vagina might have enjoyed the exploratory measures of Oliver’s cock. Then she laughs, “Oh, God no. I’ve got two rules.” She holds up two fingers. 

“Yeah?” I pretend to sip. 

“One, I don’t get involved with guys who sometimes sleep with other guys. Good on them if they do, you know, but that’s not for me. It’s too complicated,” Chiara pauses here to fill up her own cup. When she offers the ladle to me, I shake my head. “Two, I like to think I deserve better. So I tend not to date horrible people.” 

Oliver is…a bit of a horrible person. I think I can see that, just about. 

Chiara bumps my knee with hers, “Why are you so interested anyway?” A long beat, and then she gasps, in that teasing sort of dramatic way. “You _like_ him.” 

I go a bit red. I don’t want to, but some alcohol right about now would probably help, I empty my cup in one gulp. It is awful, awful shit. Too much sugar, but the sharp aftertaste from all the liquor is there still in my mouth. 

It’s something that I’ve always suspected too, I suppose, that Oliver must sometimes be inclined a certain way because he touches me, but it feels weird to have Chiara say it aloud. Somehow, that feels a bit less now, that he touches me. “I don’t really.” 

Chiara opens her mouth, perhaps to protest, but Oliver’s suddenly standing in front of us. He grins loosely at me. I see that grin at dinner sometimes, when he’s had a touch too much. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey.” 

“What are you two whispering about anyway?” 

“Elio was telling me the sixteen reasons why he hates my jungle juice,” Chiara volunteers cheerily. She gets up, briefly setting a hand on my knee, “I have to go pee.” (Why sixteen? Is that how old she thinks I am?) 

“Like I needed to know,” Oliver rolls his eyes. But she goes, and he checks out her ass as she does, and then he sits down next to me. 

“You having a nice time?” 

I shrug, “Why’d you even invite me?” 

“Thought it’d be fun. Get you to loosen up,” he nudges my ankle with his foot. “You still look sober.” 

“Well, I’m not drinking _that_ ,” I point my chin towards the jungle juice. 

He rolls his eyes again, “Told you there was wine and beer in the kitchen, c’mon. Or hell, you can drink your fucking fancy armagnac. I’ve put it in my room.” 

This interests me, “Can I see your room?” 

Oliver hesitates. 

“What, is there an orgy going on in there or something? You sit in my room all the time.” 

There is another pause, “Okay, fine. Come see my room, I could use a cigarette.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Die Antwoord's [I Fink U Freeky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Uee_mcxvrw) and some lyrics are mentioned in text. I am shamelessly stealing from myself for this bit of characterization - I need very very different sorts of music when I am working/doing something 'serious' so I figured hip hop would fit the bill here. Also they are kind of amazing, check them out! 
> 
> Delord is a brand of armagnac that retails at about £50 (~$70). 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos. You are are ace!
> 
> As ever, my tumblr @medtnersonata still has nothing on it, but please come have a chat! I am friendly and am in desperate need of fandom buddies. If anyone would like to teach a luddite how this whole posting/reblogging thing works I'd basically love you.


	5. O.

Oliver’s room, as it turns out, is nearest to the bathroom and there’s a bit of a line. Somebody wearing a dinosaur hat wolf whistles at us and Oliver just flips him the bird. He closes his door after me and locks it. 

I decide his room is underwhelming. There’s a bed, one of those plastic tables that you’d get from IKEA for about twenty dollars that I think he must be using for a desk, and then a closet and one bookshelf. Oh and there’s a.

Oliver makes a face, somewhere between _oops_ and _oh well, I guess_. It’s a sliding scale determined by the whims of _why not_ , “Stop staring at it, I’ll put it away,” and away it goes. Under the bed. I have never seen a dildo before, but it looks remarkably like a real cock. 

“Do you use that on yourself?” I want to know. Now this, this is pretty fucking pertinent information. 

Oliver gives me a long look and digs out the armagnac. He tosses it to me and I catch it, “Would you like it if I did?” 

This is worth a thousand thumbs and a thousand toes and I am not prepared for this. I uncap the armagnac and swig from it. “Probably?” 

Oliver gets a cigarette from one of his coat pockets and opens the one window in his bedroom. He lights, inhales, and then I change my answer in my head from probably to pretty fucking most definitely. 

I drink more armagnac. Sit down on his bed. His sheets are wrinkled, and I discover upon putting my nose to his mattress that Oliver is probably not the type of person to change his sheets regularly. 

“Oi,” I can feel his gaze at the back of my head. “The fuck are you doing?” 

“...Smelling your sheets?” 

“You really are a little creeper,” Oliver says, but doesn’t sound terribly upset. He turns away from me again, “By the way, I think your friend left.” 

“Marzia wouldn’t just leave me.” I say with reasonable conviction. I am almost sure she wouldn’t, after all. It would be ridiculous. I dig my phone out of my pocket, “I’ll just call her, she’s probably somewhere in the apartment.” 

“Do you really want to do that?” Oliver asks. 

There’s still a bit of armagnac left. I drink it, “What?” 

Oliver sucks on his cigarette, like he knows I’m watching. “I’m just saying, that you don’t have to hightail it out of here like your pants are on fire if you don’t want to. I’ve locked the door.” There’s something in his tone that’s not caused by alcohol. He finishes his cigarette and flicks it out of the window. Closes the window. 

“I,” I hold very still. 

“I told you, Elio. I’m not scared of you. I don’t know what game you think you’re playing with me, but we can play.” Oliver has still got his mask on and that makes him look oddly sinister. “You like me.” 

“So?” 

“And you’re rather single,” Oliver approaches me, a bit like a predatory cat. “When’s your birthday?” 

“November fourth,” I say. He is standing so close to me now that I have to sit down on his bed. Oliver stands between my legs. 

“Shit, that’s this week.” He looks surprised, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“What would you have done, get me a present?” I laugh. For whatever reason, this reads as hilarious to me because I. I like Oliver enough, in an unusual way that I can live with, but he’s. I realize now that I don’t really know how he feels about me. If he just puts up with me; if he just likes having me like him. If. Something else. 

“Why wouldn’t I get you something?” Oliver actually looks a little hurt. I think. Or maybe it’s just the armagnac quickly taking effect, distorting his face. “I like you too, you know. In the same weird way.” 

He. Likes me. Oliver likes me. In a weird way. I bring my hands up and I feel the firmness of his ass and he fucking lets me. Suddenly I ache all over and I feel dizzy. I slip my hands in his back pockets and he still doesn’t move. 

“You do?” I’ve had fantasies about this moment. Where Oliver tells me that he likes me too and maybe clothes would fall off and then he’d fuck me for three days straight. “Can you take off your mask?” 

He does, and I am weirdly relieved to see it’s still Oliver underneath. 

“Yeah.” 

I am less happy about this than I should be. I don’t know why. Maybe because Chiara’s gone and told me that Oliver is a horrible person. But it isn’t as if I didn’t know that for myself already. And it’s not the other thing either, but I do kind of want to know whether or not he’s fucked the woman on the other end of the phone, so hard that she doesn’t know how to put herself back together. Then again, I don’t want to know, either. 

Oliver touches the side of my face, quite kindly, in a way that I’ve never known him to touch me. He presses his thumb against the edge of my mouth. I open my mouth and lick his skin. 

Salty, slightly boozy. 

“Hey,” Oliver says. 

“Hm?” I look up at him. 

“It’s okay, you know,” Oliver steps away from me and I regret it instantly. I squeeze my hands on my knees. The aches in my body that have been slightly waylaid by how close he is, are now back full force and I hate myself. “D’you want another drink or something?” 

“Red wine?” 

“You got it,” Oliver goes to his door and unlocks it. “It’ll be shit, though. It’s out of a box. That still okay?” 

I don’t understand why he’s being so nice to me. “That’s fine.” Maybe if I drink more I’ll understand.

 

While he’s gone, I get out my phone and text Marzia: _you fucking left me._

Her reply, less than thirty seconds later: _aren’t you glad i did? o. was allll over you._

O. Oliver. Orgasm. Orgy. Eli-O. O-liver. 

_where are you anyway?_

_dunno. i can get back to his if you need. is anything wrong?_

I can’t tell if Marzia is actually with someone or that she’s just kidding around. She kids around sometimes, if only because she knows I hate it. _nothing’s wrong. talk to you tomorrow_.

Marzia does not reply and I slip my phone back into my pocket as Oliver comes back in the room, balancing a glass of wine (actually in a glass) and what I assume is a beer for himself. He closes the door again and turns the lock. 

“You found me a glass,” I say. “Thanks.” 

“Anything for you, Your Highness.” He grins at me half cocked and my body feels glorious and warm again. 

I try the wine. It is horrible. Nothing like the wine Dad’s got in the cabinet at home. “This is gross.” 

“I did warn you,” Oliver shrugs and sits down next to me on his bed. “Do you want the beer instead? It’s halfway okay.” He takes a sip first, as if to demonstrate that it’s not complete plonk like the wine, but maybe I don’t completely trust his taste. But then I think about how his mouth has been on the rim of his beer and maybe I want to put my mouth there too. So I do. 

The beer _is_ better. It’s hoppy, light, and cold. But I don’t drink much beer. 

“What happened to the girl?” 

“What girl?” 

“The one you were masturbating with in our hotel room.” I don’t like my tone, it’s accusatory and jealous. But Oliver and I are not anything. I’ve groped his ass. He’s touched my mouth. He’s toed my ankle. 

“Oh, her.” Recognition comes into his voice. “I still see her.” 

“Oh.” 

He hands me the beer again after he’s drank from it. “It bothers you.” 

I wish Chiara and her nurse’s uniform would get the fuck out of my head. We could be fucking right now if it weren’t for her. Or maybe Oliver would insist that we wait until my eighteenth birthday. That’s okay too. I can train him on how to talk filthy until then. Jonas says I was good. But then I think he was just a slut for my Italian. 

“It doesn’t,” I say. And it’s nearly true. “Honest. But I think I am going to go home now.” 

Oliver levels a look at me, “Suit yourself, I’ll call you a cab.” 

 

My parents are still up. They are both in pyjamas watching Francis Ford Coppola’s _Dracula_ , the one where Keanu Reeves has an absolutely ghastly turn as Jonathan Harker but still looks pretty. They seem surprised to see me. 

“Hello, _passerotto_ , is everything all right? We thought you’d be later,” Mom says. 

“Everything’s fine,” I say. 

Dad asks, “Where’s Marzia?” 

“I don’t know.” 

They exchange a glance, “Why don’t you sit down, Elio. Have some port, watch the rest of this.” Dad gets up to fetch me a port glass. There’s a small bowl of bite-sized candy bars on the table and a carafe with a bit of port left. 

I know this trick. It’s their attempt to stop me from going upstairs to brood. Or, as Mom would put it, they want to stop me angsting. I sit between them and unwrap a packet of chocolate wafers and Dad hands me my drink. 

 

When the movie is over, I think of something. “Dad?” 

“Yes, son?” 

“Do you have Oliver’s cell?” 

He looks surprised, “You don’t have it?” 

I shrug, “It’s not as if I call him. I think I left something at his.” 

“Well. It’s in the address book in the study, go look.” 

I pad upstairs and find the address book. Dad keeps impeccable records and Oliver’s cell is where it ought to be. 

I note it on a post-it and go into my room. I stick the post-it to my wrist and stare at it for a long time. Then I dial the number. Part of me thinks I’ll catch Oliver out while he’s having sex.

“Yallow,” He sounds like he’s chewing something. “...Actually, who is this?” 

“It’s Elio,” I say, feeling silly. I want to hang up. 

“Hey,” on the other hand, Oliver doesn’t sound too surprised to be hearing from me. “Sorry, I’m having some pizza. Fucking pizza boy went to the wrong block. I’ll swallow.” 

I sometimes have fantasies about Oliver swallowing, but not pizza. 

“What’s up? Get home okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m home now. It’s how I got your number.” I have no idea why I am calling. I am sure he’s wondering the same thing, but Oliver is being kind now, so I am not privy to what might have otherwise been considered pertinent information. 

“I never gave it to you?” 

“Why would you?” 

Oliver makes an assenting noise, “Sure. This is pretty good pizza. You should have stayed.” 

I should have stayed. My dick twitches in agreement and I slide a hand into my jeans, under my boxers and wrap my hand around myself. I’m not hard yet, but the possibility is tantalizing. 

“Can I ask a question?” 

“Yep,” more aspiration, which I like. 

“Can you be moved? Or are you like me?” 

Oliver whistles, “That. Is a loaded question for like,” a brief pause. “Eleven-thirty at night.” 

I press my thumb against the head of my cock, draw out a deep breath, “You don’t have to answer.” 

“I’d answer, but I’ve had a lot of beer,” I can hear a shrug in his voice. “What about you? Was the last time you ate a peach the last time you felt something?” And then he laughs. My face goes red, but my dick is firming up nicely in my hand. His laugh is wonderfully condescending in the way that I hate, but apparently my erection hasn’t gotten the memo yet. That’s all right. I am alone in my room right now.

“I,” It’s true and untrue. But I can’t admit it. I just want to lie here and touch myself. “Why aren’t you at the party?” 

There is a pause, like he wants to challenge me for not answer, but Oliver lets it go, in the end. “There’s a lot of sex going on right now. I’d rather not throw up my dinner.” 

“Why aren’t _you_ having sex?” 

Oliver’s silence practically says, _are you fucking serious?_

“I’m sure I could be,” Oliver says finally. “Would you mind? Or would you like to listen in on me having sex? Is that something you think of in that twisted little savant brain of yours, smart ass?” 

I slide my grip up the length of my cock. I’m careful to arch my hips up off the mattress so I can kick off my jeans and boxers to give myself more room. As best I can, I try to be quiet about it, “I. Dunno. I guess I could.” 

“That’s big of you. You guess you could stand to listen to me have sex with other people,” I wish he’d stop laughing. I really do. But his laugh is making my erection full and warm and wanting and I take my hand away to suck on my own fingers because. His skin has been on my tongue, so now my tongue is on my skin. 

“So you don’t mind audio pornography?” A little strain creeps into my voice, in a way that is telling but I don’t think I can stop. “You have a nice voice, even if you sound so fucking west coast it is infuriating.” 

“The fuck is that, audio pornography,” Oliver snorts. “Jesus, we needed you in the eighties.” 

“I’m vintage,” I tell him and then I actually squeeze myself a little too hard and make a sound. I know he hears it because for a second or two I can’t hear him breathing. “You weren’t even around in the eighties.” Not that I think that’s going to save me. 

Then Oliver says, “Go on, what else about my voice? Oh, great purveyor of audio pornography.” 

“Shut up,” I say, but I have a rhythm now, and I know if I -- “Anyone tell you you’re an egomaniac?” 

“Someone did tell me that my cock was king, once,” Oliver offers. “That sort of thing gets to a guy’s head.” 

“During sex?” I feel the back of my balls seize up and I moan. I want him to hear it. I want my voice to go to his dick. Fucker is probably still sitting somewhere eating pizza. 

“Yes,” Oliver’s voice has a bit of a laugh in it, but maybe it got a bit rougher too. Turned-on rough. I can imagine it that way, why not. “He said to me, oh _fuck_ me. Your cock is king Oliver Oliver, you’re going to make me come so bloody hard.” 

I was so with him until the last bit, “Was he British?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

I look down at my dick. It’s less urgently aroused because of Oliver’s stupid attempt at an accent. His English accent is even worse than his French one. 

“Can you say the whole thing again but in your own voice?” 

There’s some shifting, and then a soft thump. “Oh _fuck_ me. Your cock is king Oliver Oliver, you’re going to make me come so _fucking_ hard. Please just let me come. I’ll be good just let me come.” 

His voice rolls all over my body. I let out a little whine as I spill over my fingers, “Oh. Oh. Fuck.” 

“...Good?” Now there’s a smug smirk on his face. I can hear that, too. 

I let out a heavy breath, “Yeah. Fuck.” 

“Great,” Oliver says, changing his tone like a light switch has been flipped on (or off) somewhere. “I’ll see you Tuesday. Gotta go get some more pizza, later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings! Hope you're all having a nice long weekend/Easter. This coming week I'm wrestling with a few deadlines at work so I might not be able to update/do fandomy things until towards the end of the week. Just wanted to put this out there so I don't leave you all hanging! (And yes, I totes went there.)
> 
> Also, please please watch FFC's _Dracula_ , it is a fantastic piece of camp (not to mention that yes, Keanu Reeves is ever pretty).
> 
> Let me know what you think on here, or my still super-sad [tumblr](https://medtnersonata.tumblr.com/) x
> 
> (PS. Does anyone know how to get rid of the lingering notes that are still a hangover from Chapter 1? This didn't seem to happen before, so do let me know if I'm missing something. Please and thanks!)


	6. Blood is Blood

“So you...ran away?” Marzia doesn’t sound particularly impressed with me and maybe I don’t blame her. She’s standing in the middle of her walk-in closet and I’ve made myself comfortable on her bed. “He straight up, no bullshit offered to get naked with you and you ran _away_.” 

“It’s more complicated than that,” I say. “Where’d you go, anyway?” 

“Oh,” Marzia is fine with teasing me most of the time, but sometimes when I ask her about herself she clams up quick. “I left with Thibault. We had a nice coffee and then he put me in a taxi. He’s asked me out on a date. I’ve said yes.” 

“Who is Thibault?” I try to remember a Thibault. My head’s been so wrapped up with Oliver that I don’t remember meeting a Thibault. I must have met more people, but I don’t remember. 

“He lives in Oliver’s apartment too,” Marzia pokes her head out. “There’s three of them. Your Oliver, Thibault, and a girl. Don’t remember her name.” 

“Chiara,” I make a face. “Thibault not a party person?” 

“Kind of? He’s a lot of fun when he’s had some weed. That’s why we had the coffee. The person who he was meant to meet was late.” Marzia flounces on her bed next to me. 

“Oh.” 

“But never mind,” she nudges my shoulder with her nose. “Spill. Why didn’t you go for it? ‘S what you want, right?” 

I don’t know what I want. Although I still think about Oliver all the time, “It just. I don’t know. I’d rather hear about you and your sexy date with Thibault. He does know you’re jailbait?” 

“Thibault’s only twenty,” Marzia rolls her eyes. “Oliver’s the oldest one in their apartment.” She peers at me, “Are you okay?” 

(“Oh _fuck_ me. Your cock is king Oliver Oliver, you’re going to make me come so _fucking_ hard. Please just let me come. I’ll be good just let me come.” I have admit, that’s much better than “I’ll fuck you so hard that you can’t put yourself back together” because that’s not mine to take.) 

“Yep,” I say. “Pretty fantastic.” 

Marzia looks like she doesn’t believe me, “Thibault says Oliver talks about you. How fucking annoying you are.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, Thibault thinks it’s pretty entertaining,” Marzia drops a small baggie into my lap. “Do you want some? We’ll have to put a towel under the door, for the smell.” 

 

Marzia is better at rolling than I am. She doesn’t really smoke, but when she does, she insists on making her own joints, and I guess that translates pretty well when all you have to do is substitute tobacco for weed. We shove an old towel under her door and keep the window open a crack. I enjoy weed, but I don’t smoke it terribly often because it’s kind of a pain in the ass to get when you don’t live in the city. Maybe it’s a good thing that Thibault has taken a liking to Marzia. 

“Does Oliver say anything else about me? Tell me tell me.” I run my lips over the line of Marzia’s neck and she makes a noise. 

“Tell me why you ran away,” she grins as she wraps her arms around me. “No bullshit. And then I might.” 

“He,” I buy myself some time by taking a slow drag of the joint we are sharing. “He’s fucking Chiara. But they are not together together.” 

“You were still turned on when you found out his dick went basically _everywhere_ ,” Marzia points out. She kisses me, it’s sweet and familiar and it reminds me that Oliver and I haven’t even kissed. “What’s one more?” 

 

On my birthday, Mom and I ride in to meet Dad in the city. My parents have never thrown me a party or made a big deal out of my birthday and I don’t mind. We eat at a nice steakhouse and go see a play by Eugene O’Neill about a family hiding all sorts of secrets from one another. It is a very good, if miserable play. 

For the first time, I think about telling my parents about Oliver’s side job. I wonder what they’d say. I get away with a lot, but I don’t think I’d. 

“Elio!” Mom turns to wave in my face, “What’s wrong, sweetie? Maybe we shouldn’t have picked O’Neill for your birthday, hm?” 

“No, it’s not that,” I shake my head. “I did want to see it. It was good! I’m just, don’t know. Tired.” 

When we get home, I discover one missed call and one unread text.

 _happy birthday, buddy. hope it’s a good one. catch you tomorrow. -- o._

 

We are sitting in my room again. I’m thumbing through a copy of the O’Neill play and Oliver is on his phone. Just another day. I wonder if he thinks about how his voice has made me come on my bed. How my body just hurts with recklessly stupid abandon when I look at him. How I missed my chance because I overthink things all the time. 

“What’d you do for your birthday, anyway?” 

“Went to see this play,” I show him the cover of the playtext, “Ate some steak, opened a new bottle of Fernet.” 

“Fernet?” 

“It’s a herbal liquor,” I say. “Goes really good with coffee.” 

“Ah,” Oliver leans forward, as if peering at the cover of my playtext. “Isn’t _A Long Day’s Journey_ about the family where the mother is addicted to morphine? Or something? I haven’t read it.” 

“Yes.” 

“You can go see that sort of thing with your parents?” 

“I’ve seen worse things with my parents?” At this point, I wonder why Oliver is still surprised. “We saw _Angels in America_ during one of its revivals last year in Boston. And yes, it did get a little awkward.” 

For a moment, Oliver looks thoughtful, “Do Samuel and Annella know that you’re…” and he doesn’t seem to know how to finish his sentence, but I am pretty sure I know where the sentence is going. 

“I don’t know if I’m like that,” I say, and it’s for the most part, true. “I’ve had sex with Marzia.” And just because I want to see his face, I add, “But she didn’t say that my cock was king. She just really likes the letter ‘S’.” 

Oliver drops his phone, and I hide my smirk behind my book. He totally deserved that.

 

Thanksgiving is coming up in a couple of weeks but we never celebrate it. It sits too close to Hanukkah and neither Mom nor Dad enjoy turkey. Dad mentions that he’s been invited to give a paper at a conference in Dublin during Thanksgiving week, he and my mother have already bought tickets to go, but they’d gladly spring for Oliver’s ticket and a separate room if he’s interested and available. They’d be arriving in on the Tuesday. 

“You Perlmans really know how to jetset in style,” Oliver shakes his head as he helps himself to another ladle of Mom’s butternut squash and mushroom soup. She’s made sourdough to go with, along with some charcuterie from our local butcher- _cum_ deli. “But I can’t this time, my parents are visiting for Thanksgiving. They’ll be here from the Wednesday through to the weekend. Else I’d be in Dublin in a heartbeat.” 

I listen with interest. This is the first time that Oliver’s ever volunteered any information about his parents outside of insisting that they are not anything like mine. 

“They’re flying in from LA?” Dad says, as he tops Oliver up with Riesling. “I’d be sorry to miss them. We won’t be back I think until the Monday. It’s why Elio’s not going.” 

I take a sip of my own Riesling and motion for Oliver to pass the sourdough. He does. 

He looks at me, “...You’re not going to Dublin?” 

“I don’t always get to go places,” I say. “I’ve got school.” 

“Where are you staying?” 

“With Marzia,” I say. “I mean, I don’t really have to, but I don’t like being home by myself.” After all, I am eighteen now. I don’t exactly want Oliver to forget this. Just in case. 

Oliver’s face goes through impressive acrobatic routines before he settles on a characteristic “why not” shrug and helps himself to his newly full glass of Riesling. I suddenly think he looks like he needs it. “Don’t suppose you want to come meet my parents, Elio? You can represent the Perlman contingent.” 

“Don’t let us down, Elio!” This makes Dad laugh. 

Mom is beginning to clear the dishes, “Do you have any siblings, Oliver? I don’t think we’ve ever asked, have we?” 

Oliver drinks more wine, “I’ve got a half sister from my old man’s first marriage. We aren’t close.” 

Mom and Dad exchange a long look, “I see,” Mom says. There are some things in that look I recognize, but not completely. “Samuel, come help me with dessert. The cobbler still needs to go in the oven.”

 

While my parents are busy with dessert, I follow Oliver outside for a cigarette. He settles in Dad’s chair and I settle on the armrest. 

“Is Chiara busy or something?” The Riesling has gone to the right parts of me so I guess I’m a bit bold. After Oliver’s lit up his cigarette and taken a drag, I pluck it carefully out of his fingers, and more importantly, he lets me. 

“Meaning?” 

Oliver’s cigarettes are not as smooth as Dad’s and it makes me cough. Oliver thwacks my back generously and I nearly fall off my perch. 

“Meaning,” I say, after I’ve righted myself again and returned the cigarette to its rightful, not to mention non-discerning owner, “your parents don’t know, do they? That you’re that way inclined sometimes.” 

Oliver laughs, “That way inclined. I’m not.” 

“Chiara says you are,” I say. Let’s not forget the fact that he did talk me through an orgasm through a phone call. I don’t think that’s important, right now. 

Oliver sucks on his cigarette and doesn’t say anything for a good full minute. His eyes are dark and I can’t tell if he’s angry. It occurs to me that Oliver’s always been ironic enough with me so I can’t tell. “What else has she said?” 

I shrug. 

“Anyway, she can’t make it, yeah. She’s got a shift at the hospital. She works straight through the weekend.” 

“Is she an actual nurse?” 

“That surprises you too, huh?” Oliver snorts. He offers me his cigarette again and as badly as I’d like to wrap my lips around where his mouth has been, I have to weigh that against going into another coughing fit. In the end, I refuse and he sticks the cigarette back into his mouth, “But yeah, she’s a pretty decent one. Works the worst shifts at the ER. Stitched me up once. Somebody glassed me at a bar.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Nah, it’s fine now, see.” Oliver takes my hand and places it near his hairline, I feel skin that’s not exactly smooth, and when I peer closer, I see healed stitches that aren’t done terribly well (I think, not that I know anything, maybe I’m just jealous again) but I suppose they do the job. 

“Who glassed you, Mr. Six-five and 220? I mean, did he stand on a stool?” 

He bats my hand away, “Will you stop that?” 

I think about how Thibault thinks that Oliver thinks I am annoying. That sentence (and its allotted implication) makes my head spin and I think I haven’t had enough Riesling at dinner. Then I think I get it. I run my finger over his hairline like before. 

“You got glassed by a client,” I say. It’s the only thing that makes sense. They left his face alone. It has value. Because it’s pretty, because you have to go back centuries in time to find his jaw.

“I said _stop it_ , smart ass.” 

I take my hand away. 

“Anyway, you don’t have to come meet my parents,” he says. “It’s whatever.” 

I think about how awful they must be, to make Oliver act this way. And yet he still feels compelled to meet with them. Blood is blood, I suppose. “Have you thought about not meeting them?” 

He looks at me like I’ve contracted leprosy. 

“What?” It makes enough sense to me. Oliver doesn’t like his parents and yet he’s turned down a free week in Dublin with Mom and Dad. I rather think Oliver would enjoy Dublin. I doubt that he’d puzzle out the accent in a week, but the Guinness Factory is a big win with basically everyone. “You clearly don’t like them.” 

“What do you mean I clearly don’t? I am not _clear_ about anything.” This is the first time that Oliver has ever been sharp with me. The way he stabs his cigarette into Dad’s ashtray says that he’s pretty annoyed and for the first time I wonder if Thibault _qua_ Marzia is right. That I’ve always irritated Oliver and somehow I’ve not noticed. 

And then his expression clears to something I recognize kind of, and Oliver touches the side of my face. I recognize that too, it’s the kind way, like he’d done on Halloween, “...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just meant,” he drops his hand from my cheek to my shoulder, and I feel its weight. “Maybe it’s unfair to ask you to meet my folks. That’s all.” 

I look at his hand on my shoulder, and I want to cover it with my own. I am suddenly struck with the knowledge that I don’t understand anything, “I do a pretty good impression of Dad,” I say. I demonstrate, waggling my eyebrows the way Dad does when he is amused. Dad is amused a lot of the time, so the expression is easy enough to copy. 

Oliver laughs, not in the mocking way that my cock and I have come to like, but in a clear, relieved way that is lovely in its own. He touches his forehead to mine and I almost think we’re going to kiss. But then. 

Oliver leans back, as if he’s trying to gather himself. Some prostitutes have rules, don’t they? I think I remember this from a film. Prostitutes don’t kiss. It denotes feeling, which is probably bad for his rep in the industry? I have no idea. I think we’ve both suggested to each other we don’t have feelings, but we like each other unusually. Whatever that means.

I wish he’d kissed me. 

A loud rap sounds on the outer door leading to the porch interrupts us. Dad’s standing there doing his amused eyebrows thing and that cracks us up all over again. Oliver and I both do, this time. I nearly fall of the arm rest again and he grabs me by my hip, hauling me up. I’ll remember that. 

“Come on, boys, the cobbler’s going to get cold.” 

 

“Do you know anything about Oliver’s family?” 

Watching Dad grade papers is like watching a Buddhist monk practice his lifelong craft. He is remarkably calm. He grades while I’m on the computer typing up the last paragraph of my application essay. 

“I know probably as much as you do, son. That maybe he doesn’t get along with them,” Dad says, trading in one paper for the next. “You don’t have to go meet them if you don’t want to. It’s not exactly fair of Oliver to put the onus of that on you.” 

“I want to go meet them,” I say. “Is that strange?” 

“Your mother and I raised you to be a curious boy,” Dad assures me. “Though sometimes we still wonder if that’s a good idea.”

I stare. 

“It’s a joke, Elio, lighten up.” Dad waves his pen at me, “But it is as I say. I don’t think it’s fair that he has asked you to be present. However, I’m not going to stop you from making the decision you’d like to make.” 

Dad is good about doing that, leaving my choices to me. A more cynical way of looking at things is that he doesn’t want to be responsible for my mistakes. History has warned us about that too many times, and so has literature, that the sins of the father more or less always find the son. But I don’t think my father has any sins that are particularly terrible and I don’t think he’d do that to me. 

“Why do you think it’s unfair?” 

Dad puts down his pen. If whatever he was looking at was important, he would have said. He thinks for a moment, “You are unhappy sometimes, Elio. I am not stupid and I have eyes. But I don’t think that’s a failure on our part as parents. Young people are allowed to be unhappy, it helps them find their own way.” 

I half smile at him, “Mom said you were all about the angst.” 

“She would,” Dad shrugs, a gesture that reeks of _je ne sais quoi_. “She met me at a very strange point in my life. But anyway, that’s not my point. “It’s different when one comes from an unhappy family, as Oliver does, I think.” 

“You’re not going to quote Tolstoy at me, are you?” 

“No, that would be cliche, and we’re above that, aren’t we?” Dad gives me a half smile of his own, “But that sort of unhappiness haunts a person for a lot longer. You might like Oliver less, if you see him that way. In some sense, to me, he is asking you to make a choice that he’s weighted against you to start.” 

That’s a lot of process, but all I can say is, “I don’t like him.” 

Dad gives me a very level look, then he reaches for the next paper in his stack. I am glad when he does. 

 

The next time he comes around, Oliver, Oliver’s stupidly heavy winter coat, and I are sent down to the local co-op market to buy some milk. Mom’s run out. Some other bits and bobs too, she’s sent me out with a handwritten list. For reasons I don’t understand, Oliver finds this “quaint.” 

This time, I’ve got one of Dad’s cigarettes with me so I’ve got something to suck. This is better, kind of. Oliver lends me a light, touching the end of his cigarette to mine. 

“You’ve got a hickey,” I say. Oliver is wearing a shirt with a collar underneath his coat. By all rights it probably shouldn’t be visible, but to me it is because I am obsessive and observant and the faint mark that’s partially hidden by fabric might as well be glaringly red and angry. Hester Prynne grade. We’re meant to be reading that in English, I really don’t think much of it. 

“Shit,” Oliver’s hand goes over the mark. “Do you think --” 

“Mom and Dad, respectively, or together, do not view you as a sexual object,” I intone, taking a deep drag from my cigarette, “whereas I kind of do.” 

Oliver makes a face, “Did you have to say that aloud?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaa. 200 kudos? Guys I just can't. Thank you so much! Anyway, quickly updating like a boss during work because there's a lull. 
> 
> The O'Neill play mentioned is _Long Day's Journey into Night_ (1956) about a dysfunctional family. There's also a lot arguing about what certain words mean and how certain experiences should be interpreted based on who is speaking. 
> 
> _Angels in America_ (real title: _Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia_ ) is a play by Tony Kushner about homosexuality and the AIDs crisis. There's also a really good TV adaptation which I do rate.
> 
> Also yes, this fic is getting longer, but I didn't want to rush things so it looks like you darlings will have to put up with a bit more _Sugar_ than originally planned.


	7. Helios

I have rather resigned myself into think Oliver must have a lot of sex with people who aren’t me. Even people who don’t seem to like him much (Chiara) seem to get sex with him sometimes and I just get _oh fuck me Oliver your cock is king_. Life is disastrous and unfair. 

“Thibault says you’re going to meet Oliver’s parents,” says Marzia, putting finishing touches on her newest joint. We’ve been smoking a lot of weed recently, I decide I like Thibault. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I didn’t exactly say I’d go,” I say. “And if I’m going, I’m going as a representative of the Perlman contingent.” For emphasis, I add, “ _Id est_ it is not you think.” 

“What is the Perlman contingent?” 

“Mom and Dad are in Dublin,” I shrug. “So sue me, I want to see what his parents are like.” 

“Thought you said you weren’t going,” Marzia passes me the joint. “Apparently he asked Thibault too, but then Thibault said he was probably going to get really high if Oliver made him go so I guess his invitation was rescinded or something I don’t really know.” 

“Oh.” 

I suck hard from the joint and tap the loose ash at the edge of her window. “Does Thibault know that Oliver fucks around for a living?” 

She shrugs, “I am not obsessed with him, but I guess I could ask?” 

“Don’t ask,” I say. 

“Okay.” 

After that joint, we smoke another one and then we snuggle in together on her bed and she settles her head on my chest, “Marzia.” 

“Yeah.” 

“He’s never going to fuck me again, is he? I’m too fucking weird.” 

Marzia shifts, so she can get a better look at me, “...What do you mean _again_?” 

I sigh, “We’ve had phone sex, sort of. One sided. On Halloween.” 

“Sort of one sided.” 

“He was eating pizza,” I say and predictably this sends Marzia into a fit of giggles. She laughs so hard she actually rolls off of her bed and lands on her ass. Serves her right. 

“Pizza,” is all she can manage again before dissolving into more laughter. “Christ, you’re obsessed. You settled for that?” 

I’ve _setted_ , apparently. Maybe I have. Fuck if I know, “...What else was I supposed to do?” 

 

“Yallow,” no chewing this time. “Elio?” 

I am still a bit high, but my parents are out with a note on the fridge that says I should order in if I don’t fancy anything in the fridge. “Did you tell Thibault that I was coming to meet your parents?” 

“Thibault told you that?” As ever, the American penchant is palpable on Oliver’s tongue that Thibault becomes T-Bow. “Aren’t you?” 

“Marzia did, apparently they are seeing each other or something. Or he just gives her weed. I’m not clear on this.” 

“Smart girl, T’s got good weed,” Oliver says with the immediate air of California-know how. 

“I want something from you in return,” I say. “I think you are playing a game with me too, Oliver. But I can play.” 

Oliver thinks this over, says, “Shoot.” 

“I want,” I wish my tongue wouldn’t keep sticking to the roof of my mouth. “I want you to give me head.” 

Silence, “Like...you want me to blow you?” 

My face is red and I try to rub some of it out of my cheeks, even though Oliver is not here, “I want you to suck my cock. And then I want you to swallow.” 

“That’s...really what you want?” 

“You can’t back out of this,” I say. “It won’t be fair.” 

He laughs, and it is one of Oliver’s mocking laughs which makes me twitch, “I’m not going to back out, genius. But I’d like to know if that’s really what you want.” 

“You don’t know anything about me,” I point out. “Yes, that’s what I fucking want.” 

“Okay,” there’s a shrug in Oliver’s voice, like he doesn’t care one way or the other. “Fine. I can suck your cock.” 

 

We are meant to meet his parents at an upscale South American place on the Thursday for lunch. Apparently, his parents are not big on turkey either, and Oliver’s reasoning is that nobody would want Latin-influenced steaks for Thanksgiving so maybe they’ll be seen by less people, which means he’ll be embarrassed less by his parents. 

I arrive at his apartment two hours early dressed in a casual dinner jacket and a shirt Mom’s especially pressed for me before she and Dad went off to Dublin. The shirt is light blue and manages to make me look a little bit less pale. I’m also wearing nice Oxfords that I only wear about three times out of the year. 

“You look like you’re attending a job interview.” Oliver looks me up and down. “...It’s nice though, very grown up. Maybe I can lie and say you’re working for Goldman Sachs.” 

“You didn’t specify a dress code,” I remind him as I step past him into the apartment. “And the restaurant looks fancy. Would your parents be impressed with Goldman Sachs?” 

Oliver snorts, as if this should be self-evident, “Yeah.” 

I follow him into his room and he closes the door, turns the lock. That also turns up my heart rate. 

“My uncle deals diamonds,” I offer. “Dad should be doing that, but he went and got a Ph.D instead.” 

Oliver looks at me again, “...Right.” He presses into my personal space and touches me. My cheek, my mouth, the hollow of my throat. His other hand unthreads my belt from my trousers and then he unzips my fly, undoes the snap and tugs, until my trousers are around my knees and then I’m just in my boxers. 

“Breathe,” he says. “If you look like you’re about to have a heart attack, I am going to stop.” 

“I’m breathing.” I say, barely. 

Oliver searches my face. I don’t know what he’s looking for and I am not sure if I want him to find it. He reaches inside my boxers and takes me in hand, I bite back a noise. He’s done something to his hand, lotion? But it feels different from my own, of course it does. 

“You’re already pretty hard, smart ass. You must really like me.” 

Oliver’s mouth is really close to me. If I turn my head slightly to the left I can press my lips to his and show him just how much I like him. But I think about how his mouth is going to be aspirating around my prick soon and I am good and patient. 

“Egomaniac,” I sigh out, squeezing my eyes shut, arching against his grip, somehow smooth but also rough enough the way I like. 

“Well deserved,” Oliver returns and drops to his knees. I settle one hand in his hair and he looks up at me --

“If I get bald spots because of you I am billing you for hair transplantation.” 

I laugh, “...That happen a lot?” 

“Once,” Oliver pulls at my boxers and let them drop. “Hazards of the job.” 

Then he just looks at my cock for a good two minutes and I wonder if I should wilt. But I can’t because he’s still touching me. Then he laughs, in that mocking way and my dick and I are back in fucking business. “You shaved.” 

“Thought it was polite,” I purse my lips together and look down at him. 

“Well, thank you,” he kisses the tip of my erection and I shift forward, because I want -- 

“No,” Oliver slaps the inside of my thigh and I almost think I. “Be good.” 

I have never been on the receiving end of a blow job that was an hour long. But that’s what Oliver’s given me. He starts with tonguing my balls and licking the entirety of my shaft in a way so light that I didn’t know was possible, but it drives me around the bend. Then he lets me fuck his throat the way that Jonas and Andrew never let me and he hums with my cock against his tonsils and it goes straight to the back of my balls in a tight squeeze. I want to pull at his hair, but I am mindful and dig my nails into his shoulder instead. 

“Oliver, I --” 

Then the bastard lets go of me, he _lets_ go of me, with a neatly aspirated pop. 

I feel like I’m going to die if he doesn’t let me come right now. My hands are free, I can finish the job. But he’s told me to be good and I will be. 

“...What are you doing?” 

“You’ll like this,” Oliver grins at me, all teeth and gets up off his knees. He’s wearing a telling jut himself and if I weren’t so on the edge I might have felt more smug. He goes and rummages under his bed and for a moment, I think he’s going for the dildo. But he doesn’t, it’s just lotion. He licks his own fingers after he makes sure I am watching. Then he squeezes lotion onto his thumb and forefinger and reaches behind me. 

Oh shit. Oh. He takes me back into his mouth and I. I come with a shout. The sound surprises me and I cover my mouth. I’ve never shouted like that either, not during blow jobs, not during sex. It’s wholly undignified. But then he just keeps his mouth on me until I cease to tremble and then lets me go. Oliver’s mouth is fucked out and red. I did that. 

Then my knees give and I slide down onto the floor, “Jesus.” 

“Oliver,” he supplies helpfully with an infuriating smirk. 

“Shut up.” I reach for the bulge in his jeans and he clamps his fingers down on my wrist. Fingers that are slick with lotion. 

“You don’t get to,” he says. “There’s no time anyway. I gotta shower and change.” 

 

Oliver and I get to the restaurant first. Because there’s still some time, he sucks a cigarette outside like he’s holding on for dear life. He’s looking handsome though, maybe I’ve rubbed off on him because he’s wearing a jacket too, and a burgundy shirt that contrasts well with his eyes and black slacks. It goes without saying that his shoes are less nice but they do the job. He informs me that these are his teaching shoes. 

I keep thinking that less than an hour ago, his lips were on my cock. 

We go in, and Oliver orders a carafe of red for the table. He asks me what I’d like and I ask for some Refresco.

His parents arrive about five minutes later and they don’t look particularly abnormal, but I can immediately sense that Oliver is uncomfortable. His father is older than his mother by about fifteen years, which makes sense since I remember him mentioning a half sister who is older. 

“Mom, Dad,” he shakes his father’s hand like they are about to sit down to a business dinner and he doesn’t touch his mother. 

“And who’s this?” His mother looks at me. Her eyes are blue too, but they’re cold.

I introduce myself and apologize for the absence of my parents. Professor and Mrs. Perlman would have loved to have met them, of course. Oliver’s been a frequent guest at our house in Scarsdale, which is a little ways out of the city, and we love having him. I am using the word love a lot. His parents don’t seem to be particularly impressed with this, and Oliver just inhales wine like he wants to die. I address his parents as Mr. and Mrs., until they correct me and tell me to call them Thomas and Irene instead. 

When the food comes, it’s a bit better, because we’re not speaking, except when Oliver reaches to drain the rest of the carafe into his own glass. 

“Slow down,” Thomas says. “You always get so drunk at mealtimes, Oliver.” 

Oliver orders another carafe anyway. I am glad I haven’t mentioned the fact that Oliver has free range of the liquor cabinet at our house. 

Irene looks at my glass of water, “Are you not drinking, Elio?” 

“I’m eighteen,” I admit. “But I do drink at home, and when we travel abroad.” 

“Eighteen?” Thomas flits Oliver a look. 

“Yes, sir.” I say, wanting to take the spotlight off of Oliver. I list the universities I’ve applied to (including incidentally, UPenn, which is Thomas’s alma mater), and tell them about that one time I’ve played at Carnegie Hall as part of the From the Top program when I was thirteen. I played as part of a trio. Brahms. Irene professes her fondness for Brahms and that takes up the rest of the meal until dessert. She wishes Oliver had more of an interest in classical music, he really has awful taste. I think about telling her that I also enjoy Die Antwoord, but decide against it. 

“Want to share the flan?” Oliver says. 

“I’m sorry?” Because I think Oliver’s just asked me to share a dessert with him in front of his parents. 

“The flan,” Oliver repeats. “T says they’re very good here, but they are huge.” 

I don’t know why, but my mind goes to cock. Oliver’s cock in particular. Maybe it’s anxiety. 

“Why not.” 

Thomas and Irene order coffee and tea respectively, but Oliver and I get the flan. He cuts it in half for us to share. We’re very respectful of the middle bit, and the thin sliver of it sits untouched, in the end. 

Then Oliver says, “...How’s Fiona?” 

“Still working at St. Jude’s,” Thomas takes a sip of his coffee. “I think she got a promotion. Oh, and she’s engaged now.” 

“That’s nice,” says Oliver like he’s chewing glass instead of a flan that is pretty good. 

Then meal ends because Irene is feeling so _exhausted_. She doesn’t think New York is for her, the pollution is awful and wouldn’t you believe, the traffic is much worse here than Los Angeles but she doesn’t understand _why_ because there are throngs and throngs of pedestrians already. She didn’t sleep all last night because some punks were screaming out in the street. They were probably young and not taught very well. 

Oliver pays the bill and we all walk outside. Thomas shakes hands with me and tells me he sees bright things in my future. Irene wants me to send her concert tickets if I am ever playing in anything. She’ll brave New York for me, now that’s quite a compliment!

They ask Oliver if he is okay. He looks a bit drunk. 

“I’m not drunk, Mom. Dad. Honest.” Oliver is, however, fumbling for his cigarettes. 

“But you should really quit smoking, son. That shit is going to kill you.” 

After Thomas and Irene have gone, Oliver lights a cigarette and offers me a drag. I take it, because I think he needs me to. But then I suggest that we walk around to the nearest bodega and buy a pack of Parliaments. Once we do, he puts his lighter to the end of my cigarette to light it. 

“Thank you,” and the words do weird things to me because the last time Oliver said that to me, he’d kissed the tip of my dick. “Really.” 

I shrug, “They weren’t that bad? I mean.” And then I wish I hadn’t said anything, because Oliver’s face darkens.

“Not to you, you probably could have stood to mention the diamonds and Dad probably could have licked your feet if you asked,” Oliver smirks, and for the first time, I don’t think it’s sexy. 

“Do you want to come home with me?” I say finally, “We can raid the liquor cabinet.” 

 

Back home, Oliver and I drink Fernet with some coffee. Then we finish off the bottle of peach schnapps that Dad’s been after someone to finish, which Oliver declares girly but drinks anyway, the fucker. 

Sometime later, I get a call from Marzia, “Are you coming by or not? Or I’m going to lock my window. I might go out.” 

Oliver and I are lying together on the couch facing each other, but we aren’t touching, except for our ankles. He’s settled in with one of Dad’s first monographs, the one that he’d published after his Ph.D on Alcibaedes. He looks peaceful and miles and miles away from the man who’d sat next to me at lunch. He’s also the man who sucked me off in the before we met his parents, but that’s not important right now. 

“I think I’ll stay home,” I say. 

“Okay,” she says and hangs up. On the second thought, I probably should have asked her for some weed. I only decide not to, because Marzia knows I don’t get high by myself and she would have had questions. Although she knows that I am obsessed with Oliver, or at least, she thinks that I’m obsessed, I don’t think it’s quite that...this, whatever this happens to be, I want it to be just mine and his. 

Oliver looks up, “Does T know that you fuck her sometimes?” 

I look over at him, “Are they fucking?” 

“Oh yeah,” Oliver makes a rude, wet sound by sticking two fingers into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks. LIke he’d done when he’d been sucking me off. “It’s a lot of that.” 

I roll my eyes, but then a thought strikes me, “...Did anyone hear me?” 

Oliver has to think a moment, but then he shrugs, “Don’t think so. Would you have minded?” 

I reach for the glass of port we are now sharing. It occurs to me that I am warm and drunk enough to want to make a mistake. Hell, I’d make this mistake sober a thousand times. And then it occurs to me that even if Oliver knows what he can do to me (if he wants to) he’ll still ask me if I mind. But I still color just a little. 

“I’m not a prude,” I say. 

He bumps my leg, “I didn’t say you were. Sex is a very private thing, you know.” 

“What, you think that?” 

“A sacred act between two or three or however many bodies,” Oliver intones, and then snorts. “Sex is whatever you’d like it to be, genius. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, that’s all.” 

Oliver is still a very strange prostitute, rentboy, sex worker, escort, whore, something else? Given how little I profess to know about the sex industry, I’m surprised I’ve still managed to come up with all these words, I wonder if he has a preference, not that it’s appropriate to ask. 

“I can see you crawling into your own head again,” he nudges me. “Come on, don’t get quiet on me.” 

I open my mouth, but then my phone goes off, “...It’s my parents. I have to get this.” 

“Sure.” 

Then I realize, “Um. Do you want to be here or,” I am a bit drunk, but even I know what it might look like and. I am also suddenly very paranoid that Dad _knows_. I think my parents must know to some degree what I get up to, but I. 

Oliver studies me, “What do you want me to do?” 

“I guess you can say hi?” I push myself up with my elbows so that I am upright again on the couch. Oliver does the same. 

“I can say hi.” Oliver agrees and runs a hand through his hair, Dad’s monograph is spread respectfully over his knees. We are not up to no good. Maybe he is looking for a bald spot? I’d made sure not to hurt him. 

Finally, I take the call, Mom and Dad’s faces flash on the narrow screen. Mom waves with a spot of some kind of cream on her forehead, “Hey, you two! Looking very handsome.” If they find it odd that we’re both sitting here together in nice clothes, they don’t say. “We’re in the middle of gussying up ourselves, getting ready for a conference dinner, too.” 

I snort, and Oliver pinches my elbow. 

“So,” says Dad while Mom’s in the bathroom freshening her makeup (at least, I think that’s what she’s doing), “How’d the Perlman contingent do?” 

Oliver smiles, “The contingent did just fine. My mother’s enamored. My old man wished him a bright future.” 

We are sitting close enough that our knees are touching. So are our shoulders, but we have a definite excuse, Oliver wants to be on the screen so he has to sit close to me. 

Dad laughs, “I should hope so, it’s his namesake.”

Oliver looks a bit confused by this, so I explain, “My name’s a shortening of Helios.” 

I don’t understand, but Oliver is looking at me like he wants to kiss me again, an impulse I would have otherwise encouraged except Dad is looking. I settle my other hand on his knee and squeeze. 

“Are you staying over, Oliver?” Dad says. “Bully Elio to change the sheets in the downstairs suite if you do. We’ve not had an overnight guest since, well, probably the summer.” 

“Bully,” says Oliver dutifully, knocking my shoulder and I swat at him. “No, but seriously. I think I’m heading home. Thank you, Samuel.” 

“Oh,” says Dad. His mouth quirks to the side, and I don’t quite get what that’s supposed to mean. “Have a safe ride back into the city, then. Nature calls, I have to go bother your mother.” 

After Mom calls good-bye from the other side of the bathroom door in Dublin, we hang up. Oliver doesn’t move any farther away and I don’t move any closer. 

I think about telling him he doesn’t have to go. That he can stay here. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

“Trust your parents to name you after Helios,” Oliver says, finally. 

“They thought I was a girl until about six months in, my Nonna apparently has a sixth-sense about these things. But not since me,” I laugh. “I would have been Helia if I had a vagina.” 

“I like Elio,” says Oliver. “It’s very like you.” He puts his hand over mine on his knee for the briefest of moments, and then he stands and has to steady himself. I grab at his wrist to help keep him in place. 

“Stay,” I say. “I’ll go and change the sheets. Or, don't go right now, it's still early.” 

He hesitates, “I. I have a thing in the morning.” 

I think the morning is a bit early to start getting his dick wet for professional reasons, but what do I know? “So leave earlier, you can still lock the door and push the key through the mail slot.” I don’t want to let go of him. “You don’t even have to wake me.”

“Elio,” Oliver says my name, like I’ve never heard it. Suddenly everything hurts like I didn’t know it could. 

I look at him, and without saying anything else, he reaches for me and pulls me to his chest. I can hear his heartbeat. It’s quick, alive. Oliver doesn’t move to kiss me, but for the first time I don’t think I mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm going to basically start updating before work because you guys are absolutely awesome. This is possibly my favorite chapter that I've written out of this whole thing so far so I hope you guys enjoy it too! 
> 
> 'From the Top' is a young musicians' program and they sometimes figure at Carnegie. [Brahms Trio no. 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6fnrHigxRE) is worth a listen. 
> 
> A huge thank you to @Ghostcat3000 for making my New York geography a little bit embarrassing. The Perlmans now live in Scarsdale instead of Valhalla, so uh, if you've caught that I've changed it now! 
> 
> Come have a chat on my [tumblr](medtnersonata) xx


	8. Why Not, Surprise Me

Oliver is gone when I wake up. The bed in the guest suite is made, and when I check the front door, the key’s there lying on the welcome mat. 

Then I check the kitchen, on the table is a paper bag. When I look inside, I discover four bagels from our favorite deli in the village. The accompanying note reads: 

_Wasn’t sure what kind you went for. Got you one of everything._

_Belated addendum: my handwriting does not have tits. The more I think about it the more it offends me. Fuck you._

_O._

Despite myself, the note makes me laugh. I take the note upstairs and press it very neatly between two pages of _The Secret History_. 

 

On a second thought, I should have at least texted Marzia before taking the bagels to hers and trying to climb through her window, which is, in my defense, slightly open. The room reeks of weed. I think I should be more diligent about teasing her about being a hypocrite re: when I smoke cigarettes. 

“Fuck’s sake,” says Thibault (at least I assume it’s Thibault). He sounds vaguely French and from what I can see he doesn’t shave. Nice dick though. I think about how it might compare to Oliver’s and then I realize I have no real way of knowing. 

“Hi, Elio,” Marzia grins at me red lipped and red eyed and probably red-toed too. The only thing that’s not red is her cunt, which, when I had the opportunity to see it last, was a nicely excited rose pink, “ ‘S that?” 

“Bagels?” I pick up the wayward joint that’s been sitting on her bedside table and take a drag from it. “Oliver brought me some. Thought I’d share.” 

“Oli --” Thibault studies me, “You’re the one that he keeps talking to Chiara about. She suggests they fuck just to get him the shut up. There’s been a lot of fucking.” 

“Complaining about me, you mean?” I give him a look. I pick up the joint again for another hit. Maybe I’ll need it. In fact, I know I'll need it. 

“Not recently,” Thibault shrugs. “Were you with him?” 

Marzia snaps her fingers at me as a way of telling me that I should share. I pass her the joint, “Did you finally bang? Did you see his cock?” 

Thibault looks vaguely bothered. I wonder how straight he really is. 

Were Marzia by herself, I would have shared the glorious details of my hour long blow job. But she isn’t, so I just sit down on the side of the bed and help myself to the bagel filled with cream cheese and Lox. “We came back to mine after I met his parents. Then we went to sleep. In separate rooms.” 

“Oh shit,” Thibault looks at me, “That was yesterday? He wanted me to go, but didn’t want me to get high. His parents are from Los Angeles. Everyone gets high.” 

I chew and swallow before swallowing, if only because I am not monstrous in front of near-strangers,“Yeah, I don’t think that would have flown too well with Thomas and Irene.” 

Now they both stare at me, “You call them Thomas and Irene?” 

I shrug, chew, and swallow, “Was I supposed to call them something else?” 

Thibault mirrors my shrug and reaches for the paper bag. He takes a bite out of the plain one.

“Guys, don’t get crumbs all over my bed,” says Marzia. 

“Your bed’s got way worse shit on it than bagel crumbs,” I point out. 

“ _Tais-toi_ ,” she pouts, poking me severely with a perfectly painted toe. 

 

About three (four?) joints in, I lick Thibault’s cock just to see if he’d take to it. He acquiesces yes, but probably only when he’s fucking high. And he is pretty fucking high kind of but not exactly, actually, he’s not too sure. No offense. 

“None taken,” I say. 

After that, I get into the bed, on Marzia’s other side, and all three of us snuggle in. I can feel Thibault’s fingers creeping up between Marzia’s legs and she makes a noise, bites my shoulder. Oliver is probably no stranger to threesomes, but I don’t know if Thibault would be in possession of this pertinent information. Why not. Oliver’s nonchalance bolsters me and gives me strength. I reach behind Marzia and poke Thibault in the shoulder.

“Hey, T-Bow.” 

Thibault cuts his eyes at me, “I _hate_ it when he calls me that. “And his French is terrible. And Belgian. What?” 

Marzia senses that I’m about to lose my nerve, “He wants to know if you know that Oliver’s a rentboy.” 

“A what?” 

“Like, Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_ , except Julia is Oliver. _Une prostituée_.” 

The thought makes Thibault giggle so hard he almost hits his head on the bedside table. Asshole, “Oliver?” 

“Why are you laughing?” Sure, the weed probably explains half of it but I really don’t think is that funny. “He can totally do it.” 

Thibault mostly recovers, and does something under the covers because Marzia arches and makes another noise. I lick sweat off the line of her neck and that makes her laugh. “Darling, your Oliver’s not going to be everyone’s type. I mean, it already sucks for you anyway.” 

“Thanks,” Just for that, I graze her with my teeth near the crook of her neck, and she pulls my hair. I don’t like to think that she’s not entirely wrong. 

“Tell you what though,” Thibault says, a little hazily. “A man did show up asking for August Ginsberg once. I remember. It was like three weeks after Oliver moved in.” 

 

I leave Thibault and Marzia to fuck or whatever and wander downstairs with Marzia’s iPad. Marzia’s mother is always away so I don’t think we ever worry. I make myself a cup of coffee and after several searches on the name August Ginsberg, I turn up a well-designed enough website and click under **Meet Our Boys!!**. 

And there he is, Oliver. All six-five 220, and (wow) eight-and a quarter inches of him. Will try anything once why not surprise me, guys preferable but gals welcome Oliver. 

After some thought, I dial the number on the website, and I only have enough guts to do this because I am high. It rings once, twice, three times. 

“Empire Boys, Linda speaking.” 

I don’t say anything. 

“Hello?” 

I clear my throat, “Hi. Um. Can I book someone?” 

“...Do you have a referral?” 

I drink more coffee. I should probably hang up. 

“No?” 

There is some clicks on a keyboard, “How old are you? You sound twelve. If this is a prank I am going to hang up.” 

“Nonono, don’t hang up. It’s not a prank. I’m eighteen. I just um.” I probably need more weed. 

Linda doesn’t exactly sound convinced, but she sounds kinder now. Maybe they get a lot of calls from rather confused, under the influence boys who just want to lose it before prom or experiment or whatever the fuck. “If you don’t have a referral I can only book you in on a consultation. You’d need to bring ID, and I’d need a deposit. PayPal or credit card.” 

“What - what’s a consultation?” 

“A consultation means you, as a client, agree to meet up with one of our boys in a public place. You talk it over, whatever it is you’re looking for, and then you either go your separate ways or you agree on a schedule. Before your proper first session, a contract will be sent to you, and for the protection of both parties, this contract would include a confidentiality clause, which we take very seriously.” 

That was a lot and I didn’t understand any of it, nearly. I’m surprised they accept PayPal. I have PayPal. I also have a credit card that’s under Dad’s account, but I don’t think that’s wise. 

“Oh.” 

“I am happy to answer any questions.” Linda says, adopting a tone that’s only slightly aggressively helpful. 

“Um. How much is the deposit?” I have a lot questions. That one seems sensible to start with. 

“One hundred dollars, USD,” she says. Maybe she thinks I am twelve and foreign too. My English does get a bit strange when I am high. “The deposit goes towards your first session and if you decide to not go ahead you’ll get a fifty percent refund.” 

“Oh,” I wander into Marzia’s kitchen and root around in her cupboards. I shouldn’t have left the bagels upstairs. 

“Who would you like to see?” 

“I uh,” I squeeze my eyes shut, open them. This is crazy. What I am about to do is _crazy_. “Never mind, I’ve changed my mind. Sorry about that.” 

And before I can change my mind again, I hang up. 

 

Oliver gets invited over to make latkes and sufganiyots when it is Hanukkah, and as he grates potatoes, we learn that he’s not Jewish. 

“You’re not?” I think about the Star of David that I saw around his neck. 

“I do wear a Star of David,” Oliver shows us the necklace, “It was a gift from my first girlfriend who took me to temple. But I was raised Catholic as anything and baptized Augustus. So now I guess I am a lapsed everything.” 

“Good strong name,” says Dad. “If a bit controversial.” 

I am still not over the fact that August Ginsberg is standing in my kitchen. 

“Why do you keep staring at me, Elio?” Every once in a while Oliver will ask me something like that to make me squirm but now it’s a hundred times worse. Because I know he’s eight-and-a-quarter inches now, and I know that he’ll let me fuck his throat. I wonder if that’s a measurement he’s come up with himself or if someone else measured it. No wonder he has been recruited to do porn. 

_Fuck you_ I say with my glare and he just grins at me with one side of his mouth. 

“Are you going to go home and celebrate Christmas?” Mom asks. 

Oliver nods, “Dunno about celebrate, but yeah, I am back home for Christmas. For two weeks.” 

“The three of us are driving to Boston,” Dad offers, by the way of our own plans. 

“That sounds nice,” Oliver smiles as he grates the last potato. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. I mean, assuming I am invited.” 

“Of course you are,” Mom says, clapping him on the shoulder. “In fact, we know you’ll be there with us in spirit.” 

 

Later, we sit in my room with our respective mugs of Irish coffees. 

I say, “I’ll miss you.” 

Oliver looks up, “What?” 

“When you’re away for Christmas,” I say; I guess I have to because there’s little chance that he’s misheard me and maybe I don’t mind feeding his ego. “I’ll miss you. I think it’s nice when we sit here in my room. It’ll be weird to not have that for two weeks.” ‘Weird,’ I decide, is a wonderful qualifier. It says everything and nothing, and if I stick with ‘weird’ I don’t have to give anything away. 

Oliver’s expression seems to soften and he comes and sits next to me on my bed. He takes a sip of his Irish coffee and drapes an arm around my shoulder. Feeling a little daring, I rest my head in the crook of his neck and he lets me. “I’ll miss you too.” He says, “But two weeks isn’t that long.” 

“You don’t even like your parents,” I say. 

For a moment I think I’ve spoken wrong. Of course I am curious about Oliver’s parents, but then, it’s never seemed like the right time. 

But my consideration seems to have passed Oliver by, “It’s not like I’m going to sit at home all day,” he makes a noise in his throat. “I’ve got friends. We might drive up to Sequoia. Ever been?”

“Nope, there’s not a university near there, so.” I shrug, when I shrug we touch more. I shrug again and he leans into me. “I’m not really an outdoors person.” 

Oliver puts his hand under my sweater to rest near the naked skin of my hip. His hand is warm, “I think you’d look nice with a tan. And it’s very peaceful there, Sequoia.” 

I can’t tell if he is hitting on me, but whatever this is, I like it. 

“I just burn,” I say. “I get lobster red.” 

He peers at me, and his fingers brush by my temple. I close my eyes and remember to breathe. 

“Don’t think that’s your color.” 

“Shut up.” 

I think his lips are against my scalp. I don’t dare move, “Don’t you guys have a villa in Italy? Do you just like, not go outside? Water the peach tree by telekinesis?” 

“I go through about a tube of sunscreen a week,” I tell him. “Literally.” Maybe that’s how much lubricant Oliver gets through in a week. I don’t know. 

Oliver laughs against my hair, “I know what I’m getting you for Christmas.” 

 

About a week before Christmas, we get Oliver’s Christmas package. We don’t really do Christmas, but we take the package with us and puts it under Nona’s tree. It’s still a nice time to get together and that since Hanukkah comes at a time when everyone is usually working. Uncle Isaiah, Dad’s younger brother who deals diamonds, gets Mom a new pair of earrings and Dad and I get new watches. I give my cousins books that they’ll probably never read. Mom’s sister calls in from Milan just to say hello to everyone. 

In Oliver’s Christmas package, there are two things for me. One’s a tube of rather nice sunscreen, which...I’m surprised about. Dad gets a nice bottle of California bourbon and for Mom there’s a recently published biography on Verdi. The edition is hardback and signed its author, a professor of musicology at Royal Holloway. 

The other thing is far less conspicuous, just an envelope which doesn’t feel particularly heavy. I unseal it and there’s just a single sheet of paper with double spaced type. A post-it is stickied to the top right-hand corner. I read the first sentence, something about Heraclitus and wine. Then I look at the post-it. 

_Just realized I never got you a birthday present. Found this. Feel free to laugh/tear it apart/whatever. It’s more embarrassing than I remember._

_O._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me all shower you with thanks and hugs. GUYS, I really started out wanting to just explore bratty!Elio and maybe have Oliver be a weird west coast sun god escort and omg. This thing sprouted so much plot and I feel so loved and dhfkadhf. I would go on but then I have no words.
> 
> Obviously, a boatload of disclaimers for this chapter: I really don't know much about the world of online escorting and didn't want to deep dive too much, but I also wanted to make it enough of a world of its own that it would surprise Elio. This is intended to be just me imagining how it all works. And Linda does backstop herself by saying 'whatever you might need' instead of outright sex in an attempt to fly under the radar, so. Just imagine this as a parallel universe where there are healthy laws protecting what Oliver does? Or maybe transport Nevada laws to NY, that's kind of what I am doing.
> 
> August is obviously short for Augustus, and Ginsberg is after Alan Ginsberg, but put them together you'd also get maybe a slight relation to August Strindberg, a Swedish playwright who had a lot of family issues. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you enjoy! xx


	9. Eros and Phthonus

The weekend before Valentine’s, my parents enquire about Oliver’s plans for the holiday, “I mean, you’ve mentioned one girlfriend. The Jewish girl,” Mom says. “Are you still with her?” 

I realize that I know that Oliver is single except not sometimes kind of, but my parents don’t know that. I also know that Oliver likes me not in the normal way and I like him unusually in turn. We have never talked about what that means. We also eyefuck sometimes, and I know that he goes by the wholly ridiculous name of August Ginsberg while he gets naked with strangers who pay him for sex (acts). I know he gives godly head and I really miss it. I want him to touch me touch me and I want to see his eight and a quarter inch cock. His cock is king. I’ll believe it. 

“No,” Oliver carves himself a generous slice of gammon and drizzles it with Mom’s world famous honey and mustard sauce. “I am proudly stuck between relationships.” 

“Proudly stuck,” Dad muses. “So, stubbornly single?” 

Part of me wants to die a little. My parents (Dad especially) must know that this is at least a bit inappropriate? But most of the time my parents are so earnest and well-meaning when they want to know things that people just tell them everything they want to know. Oliver it seems, is no exception.

“Dunno about stubborn,” Oliver says with his mouth full. “Perhaps a bit disappointed with what’s on offer.” 

I wilt inside a little bit. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I might come off as a little bit annoying to him, but I’ve never once considered the possibility that I was disappointing. 

Mom laughs, “So you are picky. Is this a new thing this century? For boys to be so picky? Elio is picky too.” 

“ _Mom,_ ” I hastily neck down the rest of my glass of Beaujolais and Oliver is already pouring me more without me having to ask. I like him again. “I am not picky.” 

“Sure you are,” she says. “What did you say about the lovely French Jewish boy? The one with the voice.” 

“That’s,” there is not enough wine for this conversation to continue in any form. I look down at my gammon and stab a piece with my fork, “That’s not. There’s two. You’re mixing them up.” 

Oliver’s straight face is frankly impressive. Maybe he has to spank people sometimes when he’s in a session or something and he has to keep a straight face. How _do_ you not laugh when you’re doing that to somebody? It is patently ridiculous. 

“There’s _two_ , my goodness.” Dad chuckles. “Our Elio’s a regular heartbreaker.” 

I drink more wine and mumble, “Anyway, I am not picky.” 

Oliver touches me, at the base of my neck, where my spine begins and then I freeze up. Then his hand leaves and I feel vaguely discombobulated, “Don’t worry, buddy. If I were you I’d be picky too.” He helps himself to more wine, “But I do have a date.” 

I nearly choke on my piece of gammon. 

“Wonderful,” Dad says. “Who’s the special lady?” And then he looks at _me_ and I want to die. I am in actuality dead. I’ve just not noticed it yet, “...Or you know, gentleman, I suppose. I think you’ve gathered at this point that we’re all about equality in this family. Only if you feel comfortable sharing, of course. We don’t mean to pry, or as Elio would say, be embarrassing.” 

“ _Dad_.” 

There’s something quick and honest that flashes across Oliver’s face, something that I could have missed in a blink of an eye. I’ve caught it, I think, but I have no idea what to do with it. 

“I met her on Tinder,” Oliver shrugs. “She likes, hang on,” he fishes out his phone, “...Right. Georgina likes Shakespeare, art galleries, and travelling. Also if you don’t like gin or coffee, then apparently she can’t be your friend. She’s sort of sorry about this but not really. A girl’s gotta have standards.” 

“That’s,” Mom makes a face, “Quite judgmental?”

Dad says, “What’s Tinder?” 

 

I go and use the bathroom in the guest suite. Oliver’s stood here before I think, possibly naked. Did he sleep naked in the bed? I’d changed the sheets the next day after discovering he was gone. Oliver hadn’t brought any clothes with him then and my brain doesn’t understand what it’s like for a person to sleep in a suit jacket. 

Somewhere outside of that door, Oliver is presumably explaining Tinder to my parents. Marzia made me try Tinder once and given the caliber of people she’s had to work with, I have to wonder what kind of standard Oliver is dealing with on the other end. For Marzia, it’d been all about being above six feet, Crossfit, look at daddy’s yacht! One particularly honest fellow standing in front of his mirror with the sorry remnants of a drunk decision sprawled across his torso (translation: a tattoo of a goldfish) had written: _may not be mr. right but will fuck u until he comes along hmu 6’4”_ If I ever had to look at a tattoo like that during sex I’d probably die. 

Although I don’t need to use the bathroom, I sit down on the edge of the bathroom, biding my time until I inevitably have to go out there again and finish my dinner. I wish I’d had the foresight to bring my wine in with me. 

There’s a knock on the door. 

“Hey,” says Oliver’s voice. 

I don’t know why I am so upset, really. Or if that I am really upset, if I can call it that. My stomach feels funny and my rational thoughts are disembodied from my heart in my ribcage. I wonder if.

The knock sounds again, and then Oliver turns the knob before I can tell him not to come in. 

“Oh, good. You’re not actually on the can,” he says, and closes the door behind him. 

I can tell him not to go on the date. I _can_ do that. But I can’t. The words won’t come. 

Oliver kneels down in front of me and I think, that the last time he’s done that was last year, and he’d had my cock in his mouth.

“Hey,” Oliver says again. 

I look at him, “I just didn’t want to sit there while you were explaining Tinder to Mom and Dad. Way awkward.”

Oliver nods, “It is pretty fucking surreal.” (Actually, what’s surreal, I think is me explaining Tinder to Thomas and Irene, but that’s something we both don’t mention.) He puts his arm across both of my knees and settles his chin on top. “I think Samuel’s going to be offended by the lack of spelling and capitalization until the end of time.” 

“Dad’s never offended by anything,” I say. I am unsure as to why he is touching me, but I can go with it. I settle one hand on his shoulder, and because I have nothing to lose, my fingers creep up his jaw over his eyes, his nose, the outline of his mouth. Oliver stays still. He has a date for Valentine’s Day. (I’ve never cared about Valentine’s Day. I don’t think I particularly care now.) 

“You’re right, he’s not,” Oliver shrugs. “You okay?” 

I shrug, “Yep.” 

“You sure?” 

I drop my hand and put it on his arm instead. 

“...Can I see what she looks like?” 

Oliver looks surprised, “I guess. I left my phone in the dining room, though. Later?” 

“Sure, whatever. Later.” 

 

If my parents have taken anything from my impromptu escape to the bathroom, it’s probably not anything more than the fact that they should probably be a little less embarrassing. Dinner segues into dessert without any more bumps in the road. Mom serves us individual portions of chocolate orange souffles and Oliver finishes his in record time. I give him some of mine. I like Mom’s souffles, but I rarely finish them. Dad thanks Oliver for taking the hit for him. He’s getting that age where he probably should start watching his waistline, he’ll be as round as a balloon in time if he doesn’t watch it. 

“We have plans for the evening,” Dad tells me. “But it’s only dinner, so we won’t be long. We’ll bring you some leftovers.” 

Oliver, eating the rest of my souffle, is looking at me. I know this, even if I am carefully looking at my glass of Muscato d’Asti as an excuse. 

“I totally have plans,” I say, taking a sip. 

I don’t really have any plans, but thankfully no one asks. 

 

Well, no. That’s not quite true. Ever since Oliver’s come back from his Christmas vacation, we still sit in my room together. Except sometimes he sits on the bed, like now. He’s scribbling in his black book again and the intermittent scratching that comes from his pen is calming. 

“...I think you don’t have plans,” he says. 

“Valentine’s is still two days away,” I say. “I can get some.” 

Oliver laughs, “Oh yeah. I bet you can get some.” 

I elbow him in the ribs, pointedly. 

“Ow, stop that,” he pinches me just below my ear, a little nip, and the sting goes where it usually goes even now, so I have to shift the way I am sitting, bending a knee nearer to my crotch and stretching out my other foot to dangle over the bed. At least something’s in the way. 

I wonder if Oliver ever thinks about it, the way my cock had felt in his mouth. The way I’d desperately (I can think that in my head) wanted him. That probably doesn’t make me stand out though, he’s probably had lots of cock and lots of cunt desperate for him in the same way. Hell, it is probably the cornerstone of his reputation. 

I move a little ways away from him and Oliver notices this but he lets me. A hand passes itself very gently through my hair and because I am Pavlovian and pathetic, I let myself feel the touch. If forced to tell the truth, I like the way he touches me now because. Because something. Maybe I don’t have words for it yet and that is okay. 

“...I’m surprised you don’t have to work on Valentine’s,” I say. Because by this point I must be allowed. I have been very good and I’ve kept his secret.

“I’ve only got a seminar that ends at noon,” Oliver shrugs, putting pen to paper again, and then he stops. I can only see his face in profile, but then I think he understands what I am asking because there’s something that is different in him suddenly after that question. As if he’s getting dressed for his parents, like he’s putting on some sort of mask. Granted, I think Oliver must trade in different masks for different things because I can’t imagine him wearing the same mask for his parents _and_ a woman that he wants to fuck out over the phone. 

“It’s not exactly a nine-to-five,” he says, after a long silence. “I don’t have to be booked in all the time. And I am allowed to say no. I’ve said no. As long as I don’t use up my quota.” 

I don’t know what to do with that. It tells me a lot, but it also doesn’t tell me anything, at the same time. Probably what Oliver means to do. 

So finally, I lean close to him again and he doesn’t move, “...Is she _that_ hot?” 

After a few seconds of thumbing the screen of his phone, Oliver tosses it into my lap. Because of the way I am sitting, it means his phone presses awkwardly against my crotch for about a second and obviously, I have to think about whether or not Oliver has ever sent Georgina any pictures of his eight and a quarter inch erection. 

Georgina is...okay, I suppose. Average. Brunette, dark hair, belly button piercing. I imagine Oliver’s tongue licking it and then I have to stop. 

I shrug. Then again, I don’t think I understand Oliver’s taste in women. Chiara’s just okay too. Not remarkable. 

My disapproval seems to roll off his shoulders and seems to be not anything, “Oh. That’s how it is. What do your boys look like?” 

“What, really?” I should be disturbed that Oliver has just asked me that, but maybe it’s flattering too, that he’d like to know about my taste, which is impeccable, thank you. 

“Yes, really. You just pissed all over my taste. Though to be fair, she is hiding her knockers in that one. Try,” more swiping. “This one?” 

I snort, and then laugh because, “ _Knockers_. The forties called, they want their slang back.” 

“Made you laugh,” he bumps my shoulder. “Come on.” 

Oliver wants to make me laugh. I don’t think he really knows what he does to me without that. “Jonas and Andrew are still seventeen. Don’t creep on them too much.” But I suppose fair is fair and yes, Georgina’s knockers are rather...I decide that I can see why Oliver likes them. You’d have to be blind not to call them substantial, and Oliver has big hands.

“You don’t mind,” Oliver reminds me. 

I get out my phone and search through some photos. There’s something about getting naked with someone that makes you not friends with them. Or, I don’t know, I’ve never minded. Marzia doesn’t either, she and I have been friends for life since we were seven and eight respectively and I love her. Andrew and Jonas are different from Marzia and me, and Oliver is even more different from all of us put together. 

“I’m unusual,” I say. I pull up a picture from junior prom taken about a year ago. Jonas and I had gone stag since Marzia had been asked by some football player. We’re both in ties and my suit is better than his. Jonas is quiet, dark, with bright grey eyes and about the same height as me. Jonas had been very adamant that his eyes were (are) grey, I still enjoy that bit of him peculiarly. “Anyway, this is Jonas.” 

Oliver peers over my shoulder and I try not to get too distracted by the weight of his chin on my shoulder, and then he’s not, “Holy shit. You guys look _young_. Never mind, I can’t look.” 

I think back to Linda telling me I sound twelve. Not a good thought. 

“You _asked_ ,” I say. “Here,” I thumb some more and find a more current picture of Andrew. I come up with one taken at our most recent concert at a nearby church. “That’s Andrew. Is that better?” Andrew is in possession of a lovely _tenore contraltino_ and I wanted to preserve it so I’d always told him to be quiet when I fucked him. He liked that, for about two weeks and my mother remains a fan of his voice. Andrew doesn’t look anything like Jonas, he’s gifted with fiery Irish hair and generous freckles. He’s a bit of a shrimp, but his voice makes up for the rest of him. And he was big, but not eight inches and a quarter. Maybe a solid seven though, I don’t know. 

Oliver studies Andrew with his chin on my shoulder again, and I really want to kiss him. “He is very short.” 

“He’s not short where it counts,” I say, before I can help myself.

Oliver just looks at me, “You are really.” 

He’s going to do it. He is going to finally fucking kiss me. I thread a hand through his hair (no gel again) and -- 

“What are you doing?” says Oliver. 

I keep my hand where it is, “I want,” I can’t ask. It’s fucking pathetic if I ask. 

“What do you want?” 

I think Oliver should know what I want by now. Or perhaps he’s willfully blind because the way he’s liked me has changed. Or maybe I’ve gotten it wrong and when we’d professed to like each other we meant different things. 

“Never mind,” I say and drop my hand. “Do you want a drink? I am going downstairs.” 

 

_i don’t want you to go on a tinder date._

Then I delete it. 

_ok so maybe i like you a little usually now. bet you’re used to that though._

No. Just imagining his face while he reads that makes me want to die. I delete that too. 

Finally, I settle on _btw i don’t think her knockers are that nice._

Oliver’s gone home. He’s probably still in the taxi that took him away from our house and more importantly, away from my bedroom and my bed. I put my phone under my pillow and lie back down. The spot where Oliver’s ass had been is still a little warm.

My phone pings: _if they are not nice knockers why the fuck are you thinking about them? creeper._

And then, _i can’t believe you did it with someone so short._

That makes me laugh. Answering this one is easy enough, _are you jealous of the expansiveness of my pristine taste?_ Because why not? It would be nice if Oliver was jealous of me, of someone that I’ve been with because they’d been with me. If he can only feel a modicum of the jealousy I feel towards everywhere his dick has been. Less so his mouth, I guess, because I’ve been there. I can call that part of him mine, if I want to.

 _what even is this text? your taste is probably expansive because it’s still developing, buddy._

_fuck you._ That reminds me, Oliver never did confirm if he’d used the dildo on himself or not. This is something that I’d still like to know. Before I can convince myself that it’s such a bad idea, I follow up with, _i am so a connoisseur of cock._ I am not really, but apparently highfalutin sexy texts does something for Oliver and maybe even goes as far as to keep him interested in me. Most importantly, he is still texting me back. He must be home by now. If he’s texting me then he’s not having sex with Chiara or with someone else. I can cull that away as a very small victory. 

_not yet you’re not. my cock is king ;)_

I turn off my phone for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phthonus is envy/jealousy personified in Greek Mythology, especially in romance. Also this chapter was way worth it because I made Samuel ask "What's Tinder?" Life accomplishments, yo. 
> 
> As ever, a huge, huge thank you!


	10. L'Enfant Terrible

Despite bragging to me yet again that his cock is king, Oliver does not send me a picture of his dick and I am only a little disappointed. But in some sense, I get it. I suppose if he’s selling his prick for financial gain, it wouldn’t do to give the service away for free. Speaking of service, I still have the number from the website on my phone. Mom and Dad never check my phone so I don’t delete it yet, though I probably should. I’ve come dangerously close to calling the number again once or twice, which probably is a bad sign.

Marzia suggests that I write in to an agony aunt. 

“It’ll be perfect,” she says. “ _Dear Abby, I’m eighteen and I desperately want cock. One cock in particular, it belongs to a guy who comes frequently to my house. He’s hung like a horse and technically I can hire him at his going rate but I am horrifically shy. Please Advise! Yours, Cocked-Up in the ‘Burbs_.” 

“Shut up,” I roll my eyes. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Marzia by herself. Thibault’s getting to be a regular fixture around hers but today he’s not here and I am relieved. Part of me thinks I should be more jealous of Thibault taking up all of her time now, but I am glad to see her happy. She is probably just as glad to have a guy in her life who is not so obsessed with a hooker. Because that is what Oliver is too, a hooker. I have probably not thought about that word until now because it is rude and unlike me.

“Hey, just trying to help,” she sidles up against me and settles her head on my shoulder. “You have to admit, the fact that you have the apparent hots for a prostitute is properly funny.” 

“Yeah, well, let me make it funnier. Said prostitute’s on Tinder. And not having professional sex because he’d rather have actual sex with a girl sporting subpar knockers.” 

Marzia snorts, “Wow. Bitter, much?” 

I sigh. 

“You could just book him,” she said. “Look, I’ll lend you a hundred dollars if you don’t want it to show up on a card or whatever. I know you’re good for it.” 

“I’m not going to just _book_ Oliver,” I am sober now. Now that I think about it, I probably shouldn’t have called at all. I’ve got a good memory and the number is stuck in my head. “That’s.”

“Well, if you’re going to mope about Oliver having sex with somebody else, then you might as well get him into a situation where he _has_ to have sex with you?” Marzia reaches for her iPad and then her phone. I hate how entirely reasonable she sounds about me being unreasonable. “Also you wouldn’t be booking Oliver, you’d be booking August Ginsberg.” 

“Hey --”

And then I realize what she is doing.

“Hi! Yes, I’d like to book somebody. No, I don’t have a referral, sorry. Do I need one?” 

“ _Marzia_ \--” Shit shit shit. 

She gives me a little slap on my shoulder and puts a finger to her lips, “I’m actually booking for someone, is that okay?...Sure, I’ll hold. Yes, he’s over eighteen.” 

I bury my face in my hands and I know I should snatch the phone from her and hang up. But the truth is, I was this close to calling myself anyway. Why not leave the onus on Marzia who seems quite happy to bear the burden like the weight of a feather? 

“Hold a mo,” Marzia scampers from her bed to fetch her purse. “I need to find my credit card.” 

I can’t listen to this. As she’s reading out the number of her card, I duck into her closet. The door blocks most of the sound coming from her room proper, but I do think I hear Marzia give Oliver’s name -- sorry, August Ginsberg’s name. I wonder if anyone at the office (do these organizations have offices?) told him that his chosen pseudonym is pretentious as anything. But I guess I like pretension. I shouldn’t be ashamed of it. Dad has always said that good taste comes at a price. In this case, it’s a hundred dollars, maybe more. 

“Hey,” the door to the closet creaks open and Marzia peers in at me. “It’s safe to come out now. I’ve booked you in. She’s made sure to tell me that August is very popular, so if you can’t make it, you have to call 48 hours in advance so they can ensure that you receive a full refund of your -- my deposit.”

“It all sounds very professional,” but I’d gotten such an impression the first time around too, so I don’t know why I’m surprised. 

Marzia shrugs, “Anyway, it’s two weeks from now, Thursday at eight-thirty in the city. Apparently he only works on certain nights and there’s a bit of a waitlist.” 

There is a bit of a waitlist. And yet Oliver still finds time to troll Tinder. I am floored and amazed and jealous all at once, and the realization all of this makes me think of his wholly insufferable _laugh_. He’s wanted to make me laugh too, don’t you know? 

Marzia looks at me, “You’ll like this, I’ve booked you under Arthur, our favorite _l’enfant terrible_.” 

Somehow, I didn’t think Oliver would be terribly up on his twentieth-century Symbolists, nor would he have been particularly impressed by the implication that Marzia’s trying to make. The truth is, I myself don’t find the idea of Oliver and I living together in squalor in London particularly affecting. Though I suppose Rimbaud had thought the same. “I’d still need ID.” 

“But at least it gets you in the door, no? Now, come on, stop moping,” Marzia makes me look up at her by pulling on my hair, but not too hard. “Let’s go out.” 

“...Would Thibault mind if I took you out on Valentine’s Day?” 

“You’ve licked his cock,” Marzia reminds me sagely. “I think everything else is gravy.” 

 

I text Dad that I am going into the city and I don’t get a reply. I think they are just relieved that I am at least going to places. Marzia insists we take the Metronorth in and honestly I should have put up more of a fight. I despise public transport. I still get a bit emotional when I realize Oliver used to take the bus from the city to our house. We end up in Morningside at one of Marzia’s favorite dives, allegedly. She’s never taken me here because I don’t take much to jazz. 

“Oh, you’ll hate the decor,” Marzia keeps a hold on me. The same kind of hold she’d had on me when we went to Oliver’s Halloween party where I had had the grand opportunity to “straight-up, no bullshit” see his cock and then the rest of him too. But I’d blown that (sadly, not what mattered) quite spectacularly. Why didn’t I just fucking do it. 

“No, actually now that I think about it, you will probably hate everything. But they don’t card.” 

“...What?” 

Marzia gives me a squeeze on my arm, “Never mind. Come on.” 

We enter, and she’s right. I’d never come here by myself or even by my own accord. I wonder if Oliver has ever been here. This doesn’t really look like his The place might have Paris in the name but it looks like a dark dingy place dreamed up by somebody who’s never been. But then again, I concede that my Paris doesn’t look like other people’s. We usually stay at my aunt’s apartment in Saint-Germain-des-Prés when we have the occasion to visit. 

“Stop that,” Marzia nudges me. “Your judgey aura is killing this vibe. Let’s get a drink.” 

Miraculously, we don’t get carded, but I can’t tell if it’s because Marzia knows the barman Marcel by name and asks about his wife or if it’s because not carding is worked into the policy somehow by the virtue of Marcel simply not asking. I buy us both large glasses of house red and we settle into a booth on the same side. 

I stare at the rim of my wine glass and wonder what kind of date Oliver is on right now. My knowledge of how two people might interact on Tinder is granted, limited, and I don’t really date (except vicariously, sometimes). But I do know the various circumstances in which two people could come to have sex together. 

“Hey,” Marzia crawls into my lap, and grabs my chin so I can’t look away from her. She settles her other hand on my crotch.

“We’re in public,” I say. “Get off.” Or, you know, usually, I don’t mind, but I really don’t like this place much and well. I reach for my wine. 

“Says the guy who is always thinking about a hooker’s dick,” Marzia huffed, but not too seriously as she settles again next to me. You can practically see it in your face, you know, _dick dick dick_.” 

I wince and gulp from my glass, “I have the best poker face.” A weak line, and she knows it, but it’ll buy me time. 

“Sure you do,” Marzia’s smile is a bit of a savage one (savant, svelte, those words have nothing to do with her even though I was so certain that we were the same person once. I am sure she’s relieved, though, to get further and further away from me). “T-minus fourteen days and you can’t even keep it in your pants.” 

“I don’t have an erection,” I mumble although that’s only mostly true. 

She snickers, “You’re still going to go home and jerk it. Don’t pretend you’re not. Honestly, the next thing you’re probably going to tell me is that you’re desperately and pathetically in love with him.” 

“I’m,” I can say with certainty that I don’t love Oliver, although if she’d fed me some other definition, it probably would have given me more cause for pause. But love, that’s too complicated and odd and I’ve read too much to think that I really could. Which is probably a shame given how most people must come by the feeling through actual experience. Although I’ve never really thought of that as a bad thing really. I love my parents well enough and other people don’t move me. I don’t need them to. “Of course I’m not.” 

Marzia just shrugs, “That took about five minutes longer than it should have.” 

I don’t want to answer; more importantly, I don’t think I have one. But Marzia lets me go for the time being, because it looks like people are making preparations for the start of a set. They’ve at least got a keyboard, which is I guess promising. 

“I am going out for a cigarette.” 

 

I’ve stolen matches from Dad. I know where he keeps them and it occurs to me that although my parents have no noticeable secrets from me, it seems that I keep racking up secrets from them, recently. To make that thought go away I will probably need another glass of wine. Or maybe two. 

I check my phone and there are no messages from Oliver. Why would there be? He’s probably balls deep in subpar cunt and not taking bookings while there is a _waitlist_. 

Perhaps I am bitter. 

_if you’re not mid-coitus, come meet me? am in the city._

I can’t bear to have Marzia know what I am doing, although I suppose it’s inevitable that she’ll find out if this works anyway. Still, I draw out my cigarette and stare at my phone. 

When I am nearing the end and debating whether to smoke another, a text pings. From Oliver: _city’s a big place, buddy. it’s a big ask even if i wasn’t mid-coitus._

_so you are mid-coitus?_

_i am post-coitus and my lady friend is showering._ Then _i do not like you that much to be texting mid-coitus. sorry._

Oh. So Oliver did like me. Maybe, but not that much. Against my better judgment, I strike another match and touch the end of a new cigarette. What does it take for him to text someone mid-coitus? I refuse to think that it hasn’t happened before.

 _are you naked_. No. Bad idea, I delete it. Instead, I send off _so she’s a lady friend now? you sure do work fast._

 _fuck you you little savant._ I want to know now, if that is something that Oliver really thinks about, like _really_. If he thinks and knows that my body would so willingly curl around his like a sly lithe civet and teach him what it’s like to be wanted. I think, if Oliver really looks at me, I can teach him things, too. Things that he probably thinks he’s forgotten or left behind because he’s not eighteen anymore. 

_do you really think that? i’d die if you wanted to fuck me. btw i’ve booked you two weeks from now. just, you know, fyi._ Delete delete delete. 

I inhale deeply from my cigarette. If I know what is good me I should throw it away right now and turn my phone off. 

_where you at anyway?_

 

“You stink,” Marzia wrinkles her nose. 

“You probably smoke too much weed,” I shoot back and settle in the booth again. Oliver doesn’t live terribly far from here and I don’t know if he likes jazz, but since he’s professed his habit of trying anything once to the whole of the dark net (not that I’d know anything about the wonders of the electronic underbelly) I’d assume he has to at least have heard of Paris Blues. 

Marzia’s gotten us fresh glasses of wine which I appreciate. I need some. 

“By the way,” I say, as loftily as I can manage, “Oliver might be coming with his lady-friend.” 

“What, _here_?” Marzia’s gaze bore into me even over the rim of her wine glass. “I thought he was out with someone from Tinder.” 

“He is,” I make sure to keep a certain amount of levity in voice, “but I guess they’re post-coital now so she’s a lady-friend.” 

“Oh, God, you’ve got him into your little weird vernacular vortex,” Marzia traps me now, with her legs again and her eyes. “Should I leave?” 

I hear piano music, something light and even slightly atmospheric accompanied by soft steel drums, which makes me think that making Oliver (and company) come here to meet us is a bad idea. It’s suddenly turning schmaltzy and the last thing I want is, “Please don’t leave. I’d die without you.”

Marzia sighs and runs a hand through her hair, “Fi-ine,” she says this like she is doing me a huge favor. I guess she is, so I don’t begrudge Marzia her rightful claim to irritation. “But if you start eyefucking him I’m out of here.” She cuts a finger savagely across my neck. 

I catch her finger and put it in my mouth. And then I kiss the tip of her finger, which is shiny with my spit. Marzia makes a face at me and wipes her finger on her jeans. 

And then we’re halfway through our glasses of wine and I wonder if Oliver’s opted for coitus again because then he’d then have a legitimate reason not to show up. And also not to text me. That’s obviously the more important part of this exercise. 

It is only when I’m debating over the dregs of my wine, whether or not to give up and get another, when I spot Oliver come through the door (in my defense, I wasn’t exactly looking, he is hard to miss). A most crucial detail: he is not with Georgina. Unless Georgina’s suddenly morphed into Thibault. While this is probably perceptually possible with a bit of help, I’ve not taken any drugs today. 

“Hey, you crazy kids,” says Oliver. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” He’s wearing his UCLA sweatshirt again and his hair is mussed in a way that just screams ‘still post-coital, [bitch].’ Or maybe that’s just me and my ongoing quest to tango with the devil in the details. 

“Ha,” I say. And then I am glad I don’t have to say anything else because Marzia nearly does something very unkind to my balls when she swings her legs off of my knees in order to say hello to Thibault, who greets her with an impressive attempt to examine her tonsils and her response to this is an enthusiastic swap in turn. 

I catch Oliver’s eye and he wags his eyebrows the way Dad does and makes a rude click in his mouth. The kind of click that you make sometimes when you’re licking somebody’s cunt. 

Then he gestures to my glass, “Red?” 

“Yep.” 

Our elbows touch at the bar. There’s a bit of a line but I don’t mind. 

“What happened to Miss Knockers?” I feel good. The wine has made my blood more red and has bolstered me for the ages. Like I can say fucking anything.

Oliver gives me a look, “See, I knew you were going to do that. Thought I’d be a gent and spare her from the abuse.” 

“What about you?” 

“What about me, smart ass?” A barman wanders by and Oliver orders a pint for himself and a medium glass of red for me.

“I was drinking a large,” I say. “A large glass of red.” 

Oliver looks me up and down, “No, you’re not. That’s not what you’re drinking now.” The barman hesitates and Oliver nods to him, says firmly again, “medium, thanks man.”

“Says the guy who threw up in a hotel bathroom,” I snip back. The words come easily enough because this is our thing. Mine and Oliver’s. But his words are doing something else to me now, it is as if Oliver’s relegation of me to a paltry medium glass of red has similarly done its task in denigrating the strength of my legs, which are suddenly a little weaker than I remember them being and I have to lean more heavily on the bartop than before. 

“Yeah, and that’s not going to happen again,” Oliver seems to know my body better than I do right now, because he reaches for me and loops an arm around my waist so that I stay upright. I also can’t really move that far away from him which I am definitely okay with and even encourage. “You’ll thank me, you little continental shit.” Then he gives me my glass of medium, which seems woefully tiny. I think I must be drunker than I realize because the way he’d said ‘little continental shit’ to me just now sounds positively like he’s saying something like _darling, you silly thing, you’ve had too much to drink._

“...I need a piss,” I hear myself say. 

He lets go of me and I want him to come back. You see, we can do like the films do. We can totally have a fuck in the stalls. It’s probably not anything new to Oliver and he must have condoms handy, given his profession (or I don’t know, maybe just his penchant for sex). Strangely enough, I am beginning to learn that he does do what I tell him to. Not always in the way I want, mind. Then again, maybe it is better that he does this to me. Keeps me on my toes, surprise is just around the corner. Just you wait. 

“Give me your glass,” Oliver says, from somewhere very far away, and yet I still feel it when his fingers touch mine to take my wine from me. “The men’s is over there.” I think I get a dutiful prod in the right direction. 

I piss, and make a note to splash my face with water after I’ve washed my hands. The cold water wakes me up and also makes me realize that yes, I am a little drunk. 

Ambling outside again, the music’s changed into something a little bit less schmaltzy which is a good thing. I find Oliver still stood at the bar with our drinks. 

“Why didn’t you go sit down?” I ask. 

“Are you serious?” 

“...Oh.” 

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Oliver mocks me but it’s wonderful and I am probably a bit drunk. “Anyway, let’s sit down. I just didn’t want to take up an entire table by myself, but been keeping an eye on the table over there.” He gestures, and as luck would have it, the table is still empty for the moment so we sit. Oliver even lets me go first and I think some part of him must be a gent. 

I take a sip of my wine, very deliberately and slowly because I know that Oliver is watching. I am not that drunk, really. It’s important that he knows this. 

“This is surprising,” says Oliver, after taking a drink from his pint. “Didn’t think you’d go for a place like this.” 

I decide to test the waters before taking credit one way or the other, “Do you go for places like this?” 

Oliver shrugs, “I could. There’s a place kind of like this at home. It tends towards funk, though. Not jazz.” 

I tap my fingers on the wood of the table. Judging by the number of nicks and how deep some of the scratches are, this table has seen a lot of action, I think. Breakups, romances, ill-thought out hookups. I have no idea which one we are going to be. I drink more wine and Oliver puts his hand over mine and I almost can’t swallow. 

“Stop that, it makes me nervous,” he says and then maybe something in my expression gives him pause because Oliver adds, “please.” I’ve never heard him say ‘please’ to me. He says ‘please’ to my parents sometimes, because he respects them and they probably don’t disappoint him as much as his own. Or me. I don’t know if he’s disappointed in me. 

But he keeps his hand where it is on top of mine. 

If I was more sober and thus, my tongue sharper, I might have reprimanded Oliver for thinking that Bach could make anyone anxious (Mom played me a lot of Bach when I was in the womb to elicit the opposite effect but anyway), instead I just look at him while keeping my fingers perfectly still. “...Are you an anxious person?” It’s an unusual Oliver-trait, I think, but Dad’s already dubbed him shy, which I still don’t really believe. 

“From time to time,” Oliver says. “It’s why I started smoking. I was fifteen.”

“Thought a girlfriend might have gotten you started,” I smirk. 

“Not everything’s about sex,” then Oliver amends himself again. “Well, I suppose when you’re eighteen.” 

I had a comeback for that, I swear I did, but the way Oliver’s said it just now reminds me that I really am eighteen, and that he isn’t. But so long as Oliver isn’t moving, I am not either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of things: 
> 
> Paris Blues is a real place, shoutout and thanks to @Ghostcat3000 for her NYC wisdom! And if I can ever remember where the funk place is in LA it might show up at some point. 
> 
> Edit: I have just been informed by the wonderful @mourning_sad that apparently Paris Blues was named after a [book](https://www.amazon.com/Paris-blues-Harold-Flender/dp/B0007EXD7G) written by Timothee's grandfather. I mean, wild, right? 
> 
> If you would like to learn more about [Rimbaud](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Rimbaud), have a look at his wiki! But I think I've included the most important bits anyway in dialogue. Still, he is an interesting dude and Rimbaud gives me all the Elio-vibes sort of. 
> 
> A huge thank you again to all of you. I can't with the love guys, really xxx


	11. Panta Rhei

When we do move, finally, it’s to go outside for a cigarette. I have one of my Parliaments and Oliver shakes out his own, but I do offer him one of Dad’s matches, which he accepts. I even let Oliver light the match. As he touches the end of my cigarette and extinguishes the match with a flick of his wrist, he looks at me.

“There’s something very satisfying about this, isn’t there?” Oliver muses, mostly to himself, I think. 

“That’s what Dad says, too. You’re more connected to your vices _et cetera_ ,” I shrug. “It’s why he doesn’t gamble. Says it’s got too many external factors to count as a vice for a person to actually enjoy.” 

Oliver snorts, “I...don’t want to sound like your dad, Elio. But I see his point.” 

“I didn’t mean to say you sound like Dad,” I say. It feels important, I want Oliver to know this. Although I’ve taken great care to drink my medium glass of wine slowly, I am still feeling it too much in my veins and my limbs are not quite doing what they are meant to and suddenly it feels like the ground beneath me is moving like I am on a carousel. Not spinning terribly fast, but fast enough that I’d notice. Things are marginally more steady when I concentrate on sucking his c -- my cigarette. Easy mistake. 

“Stop that,” a strong hand is at my elbow, turning my world upright again, “You’re making me dizzy and you’re going to topple over.” 

“Like a top,” I laugh. 

Oliver sighs, “I’d rather you not.” 

There’s something in his tone again, that perhaps tells me how very young I must seem to Oliver. Although I don’t think the words are meant to scold me in any fashion, I feel a bit little again. A bit of an injured silence descends between us then, mostly my doing. The quiet companionable pause we’ve had before, that’s gone from us now. I don’t know how to get it back. 

“You know, I think Samuel would do rather well as a gambling man,” Oliver offers finally. “I mean, look at him, diamonds, a degree, fucking tenure at the age of what, forty-two? Opera singer wife and a whip smart insufferable kid. All that a man would want.” 

“...Is that what you want?” 

Oliver shrugs, “I’ve stopped asking myself that.” 

I’ve drunk too much. If there was some way of taking that back, I would have. But my mouth and my tongue are discombolated and loose from the rest of the places where I strive to be sensible, “...Is that what Thomas wants?” 

It’s the first time I’ve ever mentioned his father’s name to him, and I’ve only done so now because my overflow of courage, inspired by drink, has chosen this moment _sans_ the input of my usual sensibilities. Looking at his face and the way Oliver suddenly hides away within a hard suck of his cigarette, which is almost at its end -- I fervently wish I hadn’t done that, either. 

“You don’t have to answer,” I say. 

“I,” Oliver stubs out his cigarette and crushes it almost savagely with his shoe. 

“Really,” I repeat myself because I don’t want to make the same stupid mistake twice, “I’m sorry I asked. I’m really drunk.” 

Oliver’s grip leaves my elbow and as he steps closer to me, I find that he is moving to curl his arm around my waist. “Yeah. You kind of are. I should put you in a taxi.” 

“Don’t do that, I’m too drunk probably,” I swallow. “‘M going to get in trouble. Also I’ve smoked too much today.” I look up at him, “Can I come home with you?” 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Elio.” 

“I think we’ve moved past that when you sucked my cock,” I remind him. “And you like me, Oliver. Remember? You said.” 

I don’t understand him at all. 

Oliver makes a noise in his throat, “I meant.” He exhales deeply and looks down at me, “I have to be somewhere at nine.” 

“I have school,” I say, but maybe I shouldn’t have, because his face changes again. 

 

I manage to make it back to Oliver’s apartment with him hanging on to me, practically dragging me along in some parts. But I only last about ten minutes before I have to hightail it to the bathroom and empty the contents of my stomach. Mostly red wine. I’ve had a lot of wine today. Did I eat at Marzia’s? I don’t remember. Where _is_ Marzia? 

“Christ,” says a woman’s voice that I think I should recognize. “Oliver, what the hell did you _do_?” 

“He was already drunk when I showed up?” Oliver says. “What the hell else was I supposed to do?” 

“I don’t know,” she says. “Tell him to go home like any sane kid on a school night? Instead he’s here in our apartment and, what about his parents?” 

“They’re pretty liberal people,” Oliver’s voice takes on an almost defensive edge, only slightly muffled by the door I’ve only just about managed to close before hurling bravely in the general direction of the toilet, “What did you think happened on Halloween, that he snuck into the city?” 

“You’d do something like that,” she scoffs. “And I would too. So unless being eighteen has really changed in the last decade, _do_ you want to fucking explain to his liberal parents that he’s blind drunk destroying our bathroom?” 

“Chiara, just quit it, would you?” Now his voice is louder, but in the sudden rush of exasperation, I also detect something else. Oliver sounds tired. “I’m not even asking you to do anything.” 

“You --” Ah, Chiara. That’s her name. I don’t like her much. Her jungle juice is awful. So awful, in fact, that I still remember it, “Fuck’s sake, Oliver, what are you even doing to this kid? He likes you. It’s all over his face! The next thing he’s going to say is something stupid like he’s in love with you and this is without him knowing that your dick goes to the highest bidder four nights a week!”

If my mouth wasn’t so full of vomit that I’m still enthusiastically emptying into the toilet bowl, I might have objected to tell her that I have a name and I am not blind drunk. (Although I am pretty drunk.) 

“You know it doesn’t work like that,” says Oliver. “And I’m not. Look, why are we having this conversation?” 

“Because you don’t use your head, you fucker, just your dick.” Chiara laughs not very nicely, “Whatever, I’m going to bed.” 

 

I no longer feel like throwing up, but then I don’t know if it’s safe to venture out of the bathroom, so maybe I’ll just sit for a while. Maybe crawl into the tub, and curl myself up around a towel. I wonder if Oliver has ever taken a bath in here. If forced to use my imagination, I would have had him pinned down as a guy who likes to shower. Less of a fuss, easier if he wants rid of his morning wood. 

Finally, a knock sounds. 

“It’s open,” I say. “But it smells.” 

Oliver opens the door and closes it behind him. The bathroom is already not that big, but him being in here shrinks the space even further. He’s holding some water in a glass. 

“You’ve smelled my puke.” 

“Oh, yeah, I have.” I take the glass from him. My throat feels raw and the water is oddly sweet. I’ve had people tell me this is the way it happens, after you throw up and now because I’ve become more common I know it to be true. Worry is radiating from where Oliver’s sat himself down by the edge of the tub and I don’t want to look at him. 

“...Did I get you into trouble?” 

“Oh, you heard --” Oliver sighs noisily into his hands. “Actually, how much did you hear?” 

“I,” I sip some more water to buy myself time. I’d heard pretty much everything, I think, but there’s no telling if I’ll remember. “...Enough to know she probably whips you in bed and you like it?” There, levity always does the job. 

Oliver opens his mouth and closes it, “Come on, get up.” 

I start to try to, but when I start to reach for the edge of the toilet to heave myself up, Oliver says --

“Wait, stop it. You’ll thank me.” 

He moves from the edge of the tub and in half a step, he’s next to me. I am suddenly all too aware that he smells like slightly sweaty cologne that’s halfway expensive and I stink of wine and vomit. In one swift motion, Oliver hauls me up to me feet and steers me towards the sink. “Wash.” 

I don’t think I have any bite left in me that isn’t welled up in vomit-bile so I just do as I am told. I could ask him if he wants to examine my nails to make sure they are up to scratch, the way Marzia does sometimes. But I don’t. 

After that, Oliver flushes the toilet and Fabrezes rather liberally everywhere in the small space before leading me into his bedroom. I’ve been here before. I sniff the air tentatively to see if there’s anything left of the sex he’d had with Georgina earlier in the evening. He deposits me in the chair next to his IKEA table and goes to his bed to throw off his blankets and pillows. It is only when Oliver moves to strip of his bedsheet that I realize --

“What are you doing?” 

Oliver fixes me with a look, perhaps a bit annoyed, “Do you want to sleep on a sheet that has had someone’s cunt on it?” 

I lay my head down on his desk, but carefully so I don’t disturb the “Did you perform cunnilingus?” 

“Did I,” Oliver shakes his head and finishes tugging the sheet off his bed. “I ate pussy, yes. I enjoyed it, yes kind of. No one says --” 

“Cunnilingus,” I supply. “I do.” 

Oliver is rummaging through his closet, a sad standalone thing against the wall next to his desk, “Yes, but we’ve already established that you are a weird little smart ass savant. Are you always this perky after you’ve tossed your cookies?” 

“Tossed my cookies?” Perky makes me think of nipples. My nipples, and what would happen to them if Oliver had ever had the chance (or perhaps more importantly, the desire) to lick them. He could even use his teeth, leave his mark(s). I don’t think I’d mind. 

Oliver manages to pull what looks like a cleanish sheet from his closet and winds it somewhat unsuccessfully around his arm like a billowing sail, he glances at me, “I don’t know. It was something my gran used to say. Toss one’s cookies. Very G-rated.” 

He changes the sheets, and it is only after that, that I am beginning to come back to myself. The fact that Oliver is bothering to change his sheets for me means that he must expect me to sleep here in his bedroom. 

More specifically, in his bed. He wants me to sleep there. 

“Oliver.” 

“Yeah.” 

“‘M I supposed to sleep in your bedroom?” 

I know this question surprises him because Oliver pauses as he’s smoothing his sheets over the last corner in the upper left-hand side. I wonder which side of the bed he sleeps on. After he finishes what he’s doing he sits down at the edge of his mattress and looks over at me. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch outside, Elio. You can have my bed.” 

I am still feeling a bit like the room is spinning. But the truth is, I do feel better after tossing my cookies. “...Or you could just stay. I trust you not to take advantage of me. And maybe you sleep naked and that’s something I’m still curious about.” He hadn’t slept naked when we were in the hotel room together in Providence but I think this is different. This is Oliver’s bedroom. 

Oliver’s face is a thousand places at once. I wonder if any of Chiara’s complaints have seeped into his blood and his mind, ergo making him afraid of me. I trust him, I think, but maybe Oliver doesn’t trust himself. It explains to some degree why he no longer asks himself questions. At first, he looks determined, like he wants to argue with me and my puke-hazed, perfectly structured logic, but then something leaves him too, something that makes his shoulders loosen like he’s finally put down a weight. 

“Lemme find you something to wear.” 

 

I am aware that Chiara is asleep somewhere in this apartment, so I am careful not to make too much noise. Oliver unearths from the depths of his closet another sweater that he sniffs and makes a face. 

“You know what, never mind, wear this.” 

He pulls off his UCLA sweatshirt and hands it to me. I hold it for a moment, and then take off my own sweater and the buttoned-top underneath. Both smell vaguely like vomit. Which means I’m shirtless now and I don’t think he’s ever seen me shirtless. Oliver also vaguely looks like he wants to touch me and I try to bravely communicate that this is something perfectly acceptable to me by just looking at him. But not exactly eyefucking him because that’d be crass. I don’t do that.

But he doesn’t touch me and I just put on the UCLA sweatshirt. It’s loose on me and still warm from Oliver’s body heat. It doesn’t smell like sex, thank fuck. 

“I don’t have any bottoms that will fit you,” Oliver says, after looking at me up and down. It his worth noting that I don’t think he’s eyefucking me either. “But if you want to sleep in your shorts or something I can lend you some socks.”

“...Socks?” 

Somehow, curiosity overwhelms and I don’t press the idea that I can get more naked if Oliver would like me to. I end up on the right side of his bed, in his UCLA sweatshirt, my boxers, and a pair of socks; granted, I have to admit I like these socks, they are quite warm. I’ve had many a thoughts about how Oliver and I would be after we’ve finally fallen into bed together and this scene does not make the cut. He goes to change into his tracksuit pants and crawls into his bed next to me. Before reaching for the light, Oliver stares at me again.

“Promise you won’t throw up again, okay?” 

“Scout’s honor,” I tap my temple with two fingers. “Any more, I’ll probably have to start hurling up my intestines.”

Oliver winces. But he turns the light off and there’s that one moment where I think we.

“I can’t see Samuel and Annella putting you into the Boy Scouts.” 

With the Boy Scouts spearheading our pillow talk, I am sure we’ll get places, “They did, once. I went on one those away trips and came back with a rash thanks to poison ivy. That was the end of it.” 

Oliver laughs, “Nice to see things don’t always go your way.” The laugh is light enough but the sentiment is meant to barb. I know that. It doesn’t exactly offend me.

“ _It is my opinion that Heraclitus’ notion of panta rhei prefigures all modern day notions of chill. If we really think about it, for all their innovations and aspirations that eventually built up Classical Greece as we know it, quotidian life was likely not even comparable to the worst squalors we know to exist today. Panta rhei was the sliver of hope and united Greek blood. That being said, Heraclitus would have likely argued for the idea of the illegality of underaged drinking as being superfluous, especially given the draconian nature of a no-chill agenda inherent behind U.S. liquor laws --_ ” 

“Are you going to quote me the whole thing?” Oliver interrupts me. 

“I know the whole thing,” I shrug. 

Oliver’s eyes and what they are trying to say to me just now are indiscernible to me in the dark. Finally, he just shakes his head, “Well. Shit. I don’t even remember half of what I wrote.” 

“You do write very lucidly about antiquated liquor laws?” 

It’s not until Oliver elbows me in my ribs that I realize that he’s moved closer to me on his bed. I don’t dare move. 

“It seemed very important to me, then.” He says. 

Oliver is still lying on his back, but if I turn on my side towards him I can look at his face in profile. I put my cheek against his shoulder, and he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m guessing you weren’t allowed into the liquor cabinet when you were my age?” 

Oliver laughs, “Worse. We didn’t have a liquor cabinet. But I think my old man always kept emergency bourbon in the master bed and I think Mom still thinks I don’t know about her secret gin stash.” 

“So you had to grow up drinking _gin_ ,” I laugh too. I like leaning against him; among other reasons, I now get to add a practical one: Oliver’s shoulder provides a compass for me so that the room stays upright. “No wonder your taste is awful.” 

He snorts at this, but doesn’t say anything. After a moment, he shifts to face me and puts a hand on my hip. I am crossing my fingers and toes (warm in their borrowed socks) that Oliver chooses to wander southwards instead of up north, but I suppose at this point I can’t be picky. And if he wanders up north he can glide oh so carefully, deliberately even, past my nipples. Why not. 

“I don’t care,” I say. “Just so you know. I know what I’m doing.” I am not like Chiara, who cares, despite not being involved with Oliver and holding the opinion that he is a horrible person. She is not completely wrong, but I know that she must be where it counts because Oliver is. “I don’t think I will ever fall in love, Oliver, okay. It’s fucking stupid, the only love I know is in books. I know what you must think, that I’m only eighteen and.” 

“Please stop talking,” Oliver says. “You’re drunk.” 

“I’m not,” but maybe he’s right because if I am not looking straight at his face, I can’t seem to focus on anything else. I can’t seem to read anything in his expression. None of the pieces that he’s given me of himself fits how he is looking at me now. Like he perhaps pities me and that despite thinking that I am clever (Oliver must think that, that I’m clever) he actually thinks I don’t know anything. 

“You shouldn’t say things like that when you’re just barely...” and then he trails off. “Come here, Elio.” 

And so I go. Oliver wraps me up in his arms and our feet tangle together. He is barefoot and I’m socked, but if I really pay attention, I think I can feel his bare skin as if there’s not anything between us. 

I nuzzle up against the warm crook of his neck and kiss his pulse. His heartbeat quickens against my tongue. Oliver makes a noise and then stiffens, as if I’ve touched him instead with a hot iron. A thumb pushes in meaningfully between my shoulder blades. 

“None of that, okay? Let’s just stay like this.” 

“Okay,” I say with my eyes closed. “I’m going to be raging hard in the morning, just so you know. Maybe you can suck me off again.” 

The last thing I remember as I drift off to sleep is Oliver’s laugh, and the press of his lips against the top of my head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an early update guys, to celebrate the fact that this thing has an ending, hurrah! I wrote it and hopefully I'll just be going through and editing now. 
> 
> Also, I am so completely not a Classicist at all, but I probably know as much as an eighteen-year-old Oliver does? Hopefully my academic babble isn't too offensive to anyone.
> 
> Lastly a huge thank you! As always!


	12. Not Anything

I have a headache when I wake up. One of those severely pounding ones that comes in waves like a composition by Steve Reich. I feel nauseous, but I think that if I stay still and with Oliver close by I probably can hold in the urge to vomit until later. 

Except Oliver isn’t here. He’s not in the bed, and he’s not in his bedroom either. When I roll over to his side of the bed, the smell of him is still there and it is still a little warm. I put my face into his pillow and sniff the remnants of his shampoo. I think I find a hair. I leave that where it is. It’s too much even for me. 

My watch reads five minutes to eight and then I remember. I remember Oh shit I never texted Mom or Dad about not coming home. They are usually pretty good about things as long as I keep them in the loop and I haven’t. I haven’t. Shit. The severity of this waylays the weight of my limbs that’s been brought on by my headache somewhat and I manage to find the pool that is my jeans by Oliver’s desk. I fish out my phone and _6 missed calls; 5 unread texts_ stare at me accusingly in the face. 

“Fuck,” I say, pressing my hand into my eyes. The room is spinning again and I really want to throw up. Not sure what else there is left, but maybe I should get on that before I endeavour to find out too much on Oliver’s bedroom floor. 

And then I’ll have to account for my sins to my parents. But then doesn’t have to be now. Now I have --

Oliver’s door opens, and for a moment, I’m distracted. Oliver is dressed, but his hair is damp like he’s just had a shower. A fresh smell that is Oliver and presumably his shower products assaults my nose and I find enough courage to swallow a mouthful of bile. 

He’s also on the phone. I see that now, “...Yes. I just thought I’d call to let you know, Samuel. Elio is here with me. He’s not absconded anywhere, I didn’t want you or Annella to worry.” 

Oliver has called _my parents_. I didn’t think my stomach could sink any lower or twist up anymore. This is woefully unfair. 

“I could put him in a cab or,” Oliver makes a noise between his lips, something that’s not quite ‘hm,’ but thereabouts, “Sure, I don’t have to set off until nine. No promising that it’s going to be any good, but I can give him some breakfast to tie him over until you get here. Yeah, yeah. No bother. See you in a little while.”

Then he hangs up and I remember I’m going to be sick. I make a retching sound but nothing comes out and then Oliver looks at me. 

“Jesus,” he says by the way of greeting. “Come on, let’s get you to the bathroom.” 

He wrangles me to his bathroom, with one arm around my waist and the other hand under my elbow but I’ve never felt so far away from him. 

I heave into the toilet under Oliver’s supervision and nothing comes out. Just spit and bile. 

“You called Dad?” I say, finally, when I think I’ve regained most of myself. Granted, my dignity needs to be flushed out again, but anyway. “You --” 

“Elio, of course I was going to call your parents,” Oliver sighs. “I know you didn’t call them and I know they would have worried.” 

“Of all the times to be responsible, you had to pick now?” I snip. “I thought you _liked_ me.” 

“This is not about that,” Oliver shakes his head. “You know it’s not. Get up.” He extends his hand towards me to help, and if I had any dignity left I wouldn’t have taken his hand. But I don’t and I am pathetic, so I take his hand and he pulls me up. 

I frown at myself in the mirror. I look a little like death, I do look like death. I am so pale that I’m almost translucent and Oliver is behind me, good and solid. 

He puts his hand on my shoulder, and suddenly I can’t bear to have Oliver touching me. But I also like it when he touches me so I. 

I lean back against him and look up, “I wish you hadn’t called Dad.” 

“I had to,” Oliver says, barely looking down at me; he doesn’t apologize, although I think he ought to. But he doesn’t move, which is a good sign that me and the current cloud of stink isn’t chasing him away, either. “Don’t be like this, Elio, okay? I didn’t tell him how drunk you were. So try to come back to life a little in the next half hour?” 

 

Oliver fixes me breakfast, and it doesn’t seem like Thibault or Chiara are in so we are alone. Thibault must have gone back home with Marzia. I sometimes think about Oliver fixing me breakfast after we’ve been to bed together, but not like this. He toasts us bread (I’m actually kind of impressed that he’s gone for wholemeal) and tells me I can have my pick of peanut butter, (raspberry) jelly, or butter. 

“Raspberry?” 

“It was on sale,” he shrugs. “Coffee?” 

“Yes, please.” And it’s instant coffee, but the slightly nicer kind that gets to put ‘Barista’ on the label. Without asking, Oliver sloshes just a bit of milk in mine, the way I like. Apparently he remembers how I take my coffee. This surprises me, and maybe I feel better. 

“...Was it something I said last night?” I say. I said a lot of things, I don’t exactly remember. I might have told him I read too much and ribbed him about his understanding of US liquor laws. There was also the snitches of what I’d heard between Oliver and Chiara, but maybe I don’t want to think about that right now. “I apologize. Okay?” 

“You didn’t say anything,” Oliver says. 

“I clearly did,” I press. “Because now you’re trying to get me less drunk and send me home.” 

“I told you I had somewhere to be,” he lets out a noise between his teeth. “And the last time I checked, school is in session.” 

“I graduate in four months, and I barely learn anything,” I tell him because it’s the truth. “I just don’t understand why you’re suddenly being like this. This is juvenile and stupid.” 

“Yes it is,” Oliver sighs. “Look, just. It’s not like I won’t see you. So stop it, please?” 

“...Are we breaking up?” 

“What are you,” Oliver starts and stops. He puts my coffee in front of me and turns away. “We’re not anything, Elio. Least of all breaking up. Do you want some aspirin?” 

“Isn’t nine in the morning a little early for fucking?” I’ve got that. I can play that card; it’s only because I pride myself on my self control that I don’t. And I know it works because Oliver’s back seizes up in a full-body cringe.

“I only keep appointments at night,” Oliver says without looking at me. “Not that it’s any of your business. I have to go to a study group. And then I have to go to the hospital.” 

“To,” I look at his back. He must have heard something in my voice because then he adds --

“Just for tests, it’s a regular thing, Chiara takes a long lunch and helps me out.” 

Well, if there’s anything I am learning about, it’s that legitimate prostitution websites probably have real office spaces and accept Paypal and now, I guess I get to add the fact that they require their boys to undergo tests. I’ve never had one, although now I am thinking I might. I just. 

“...I will have an aspirin.” 

 

Oliver says I can wear his UCLA sweatshirt home with me after we investigate the state of my own clothes. Even after Oliver sprays an inordinate amount of cologne on my shirt and my sweater (“old trick,” he says with thoroughly misplaced confidence,) we declare the situation unsalvageable. 

“I’ll get you a bag,” he says, and leaves me in his room again. 

I wish. I want. I don’t know anything. Oliver comes back with a plastic bag and holds it open for me while I dump my clothes inside. Then we go into his living room to sit and he offers me another cup of coffee. I decline and ask for a glass of water. 

He goes and gets me a glass, then he sits down next to me on the couch. 

“He’s already going to know I’m hungover because I’m in your clothes,” I say. I’ve only seen Dad angry a handful of times and only one other time at me, and I can’t even begin to imagine how angry he must be at me now. He’s always told me that he doesn’t believe in rules for life, but he believes in having respect for people and of course I have the utmost respect for my parents. Whenever they have told me to do something, I’ve always done it without fail. This should not have been any different, except --

“Or you can say you didn’t want to put yesterday’s clothes back on and demanded I lend you something,” Oliver says, clearly trying for levity. 

“I am not that petty.” 

“Sorry, buddy, but you are the most fussy person I know,” Oliver almost reaches for me. I know this because I see his fingers twitch as they leave his knee, but then he thinks better of it and doesn’t move. “Not, that I think it’s a bad thing. It kind of keeps me on my toes.” 

I think, and this time I don’t even pretend to not be not bitter, _yes, because everyone else you know subscribes to why not fucking surprise me._

My silence makes him uncomfortable, I can tell.

Finally, he says, “I don’t think Samuel is going to be mad or anything.” 

“You don’t know my Dad.” I say. 

Oliver flinches, “Yes, but I know mine.” 

I turn to look at him. I suppose I can ask him why. Part of me remembers being able to ask Oliver questions once, but now my head hurts and nearly nothing makes sense. He’s going to the hospital to get tested so he can presumably have more sex and it is, very much _not_ my business. 

Then the doorbell rings, and Oliver goes to get it, “Hi, Samuel.”

Dad steps inside the apartment, “Morning, Oliver.” Then he looks at me, “Elio.” 

“...Hi, Dad.” It takes me about a good ten seconds to muster the courage to look at my father and his face gives nothing away. “I’m. Sorry.”

“We’ll talk in the car,” he tells me. “We don’t want to make Oliver late.” To Oliver, he says, “Are you still coming by on Friday? Annie wants to order some things from the butcher’s ahead of time and it’s easier if she’s got numbers.” 

“I,” Oliver’s gaze flickers towards me, and in my humiliation I am determined to not give him the satisfaction. “...I’d love to, but I can’t stay too long. Pass on my gratitude, as per.” 

If Dad finds anything odd about this answer, he doesn’t say, “...That’s not a problem, I’ll let her know.”

“Thanks. Later, Elio.” 

I don’t reply.

 

Dad doesn’t say anything for the longest time, and I still feel rather ill, so that’s my excuse not to say anything either. It’s only when he pulls off the parkway that I find the courage to open my mouth. 

“...Were you worried?” 

“Of course we were, your mother didn’t sleep. She’s only resting now because Oliver called.” Dad says, keeping his eyes on the road, “All we asked for was one phone call. Or even a text. Out of respect.”

He doesn’t sound angry (like the way Oliver said he wouldn’t, but I don’t want to think about that, that doesn’t help me in any way). Somehow, Dad’s complete lack of a reaction makes me feel even worse. It’s like with very few words, Dad’s turned me inside out and I’m left holding a bag with all my secrets. I try to slide down farther in the passenger seat, but my seatbelt keeps me in place. 

“I am really sorry,” I say. “ _Vraiment désolé. Mi dispiace molto_. I will never ever do it again.” 

I’ve been taller than Dad ever since I was sixteen, but he still reaches and puts a hand on top of my head. 

“Was it worth it?” 

I touch my pulse. I think of my mouth fitting over Oliver’s heartbeat and the noise, the wonderful noise he’d made. But then I am reminded that I have a splitting headache that’s back in full force after Dad starts off in front of a green light.

“...Not really.” 

 

“Elio…?” Mom does look tired, like she hasn’t had much sleep. I feel guilty all over again, but all she does is hold out her arms and I crawl to her on my parents’ bed like I’m six years old again. “Oh, darling, we’re just glad to have you home. I was worried.” 

“I know, Mom. I am. All right. I am all right, and I’m sorry.”

I end up napping in my parents’ bed, and when I wake up again, there’s a text from Oliver.

_let’s not be like this. i hope you are feeling better._

_let’s not be like what, exactly? we are not anything._

As soon as I hit send, i regret it already. I could recall the message, I think, and I’m in the middle of doing that, when Oliver texts me back. 

_are you going to be like this when i come over on friday? because i don’t have to come._

I wait a good ten minutes. 

_do you like me? is this what this is? you can’t stand to be with someone who you actually like? i don’t care if you’re_

I delete it. 

_i heard everything. i am nothing like you think i am_

I delete that too.

_come over on friday i don’t care. i am not going to be home._

 

If my parents think it’s odd that I beg off to go to Marzia’s on the Friday, they don’t question it, although Mom does complain that we’re probably going to have duck for tomorrow’s lunch. Perhaps sandwiches with a bit of watercress. Or perhaps a salad with some mango. 

Whatever the case, I go to Marzia’s to escape Oliver and intrude on her and Thibault having Chinese takeout. I don’t know that I’ve done anything to encourage this, but apparently they are laboring under the delusion that I am avoiding Oliver because it’s turned out that he is bad at sex. Spectacularly bad, like Tommy from _The Room_. (“You’re breaking me apart, Elio!” Marzia preens for dramatic effect. She’s like Oliver with his accents; she just can’t.)

“Maybe he skates by with his face,” Thibault tells me as he stuffs his stupidly French face with sauce-laden chow mein. “You know, when he orgasms.” He demonstrates and I want to punch him in his sternum. 

“You...don’t know anything about how this works, do you?”

“ _Non_ ,” Thibault shrugs with his mouth full. “But you know, I don’t think you do either. Or else you wouldn’t be here hiding.” 

“Or staring at your phone like a lost puppy,” Marzia snatches my phone out of my hand, and attempts to pass it on to Thibault, who is still chewing like a fucker who doesn’t have a dog in his fight.

“Give it back,” I grit out. “Please.”

“Then stop looking at it, or go home. Kiss and make up, or something.” She fixes me with an imperious look. 

“I fucked up,” I say. 

They both look at me, and for the first time, I see that they are far from me. Thibault looks between Marzia and me, decides it’s probably not worth it to figure out what’s going on, and declares with probably a little too much bravado that he’s going to take a shit now. 

“Charming,” I say once Thibault is out of earshot, or maybe he isn’t. It’s not like I give much of a fuck, “He practically oozes with it.” 

“Well, at least he’s not a hooker with commitment issues?” Marzia sighs, “What’s wrong, Elio?” 

“I don’t think it’s commitment issues, I think it’s,” I run a hand distractedly through my hair. “Fuck knows.” 

“Does that mean I get my deposit back?”

Oh. Her deposit. I’d been so busy turning around Valentine’s and the day afterwards in my head that I forget that Marzia’s booked me in with August Ginsberg, popular Empire Boy extraordinaire. Actually, that is coming up in a couple of days. 

“Um,” I let out a sigh by puffing out my cheeks. “I.” 

“Let’s not turn this into another he straight up offered you naked times and you running away, yes?” Now Marzia’s look turns slightly morally superior and I think she has no right. Also _naked times_ is practically plebian for someone like Marzia. For the first time I wonder if the combination of Thibault and the sudden influx of weed in her system has done irreparable damage to her vocabulary and maybe I need to be having words with the guy. 

“I did get a blow job?” 

“That was _Thanksgiving_. I mean, you are being blue-balled by a,” Marzia shakes her head. “Or maybe it’s you. I don’t know, but you know I think this is ridiculous.”

I think that she’s right. There hasn’t been anything other than a blow job at Thanksgiving, but Oliver has clearly had sex with people other than me (post-mid-fucking-coital Tinder knockers lady comes to mind) but he’s not touched me. And while he could have, I’ve had to make do with the weight of his chin on my shoulder, or the warmth of his arms when I had had the golden opportunity to climb into bed next to him. There is too, the way Oliver hadn’t been afraid of my puke and hauled me up so I wouldn’t have to touch the rim of his toilet. 

I shrug. 

Marzia shrugs back, “Do whatever you want. But you still owe me a hundred dollars.” 

I leave, and when I get home, I realize that Oliver’s UCLA sweatshirt is still somewhere in my room. Oliver is also not around when I get in. Dad, who is watching what looks like Baz Luhrmann’s awful _Romeo + Juliet_ , tells me there is plenty of leftover duck in the fridge if I fancied any food. 

“Why are you watching that?” 

“It was on,” he shrugs, and offers me his glass. It’s madeira. “Your mother was watching it too, but she left to ring someone. We’ve got to keep up with the kids.” 

“Dad,” I roll my eyes. “Did Oliver leave very quickly?” 

“Fairly quickly,” Dad agrees. “He’d less of an appetite, as well.” 

“That is not my fault,” I say. Actually, I am going to get my own glass for the madeira. 

“Didn’t say it was,” Dad says sagely. “Just thought you wanted to know. Thanks to him, I think we’re having duck mango salad until kingdom come.” A pause, “I am joking. But at least through the weekend.” 

“ _Dad_ ,” I pour myself some madeira and against my better judgment, sit down. “I.” 

Dad just looks at me. I think about telling him about my appointment with August Ginsberg. Surely that’d offend him. He might think Oliver has been corrupting me, preying on me. He might think that whoring is the last honorable profession, if even a little too honest. I. 

“I’m going upstairs.” 

 

Once I am alone in my room, I put on Oliver’s UCLA sweatshirt over my pyjamas. It’s not been in the wash, so it still smells like his sweat and stale cologne. I call him and it goes to voicemail. I’ve never listened to his voicemail before. He gives his real name and not August Ginsberg’s. I want to keep calling to listen to his stupid voice and then I think I’m going crazy. 

He must be with someone right now, or he doesn’t want to talk to me. I don’t know which scenario I prefer. Both are dire.

I text him: _sorry i know we aren’t anything. can we start over?_

I suppose, if I admit that we are not anything, then it absolves Oliver from calling me back. Or texting. I might not ever hear from him ever again. For a little consolation, I take a deep sniff of the sweatshirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, guys, 400 kudos?? Thank you for that and the lovely lovely comments! xx
> 
> The Steve Reich composition that Elio references is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=doJk4yPwJDk).
> 
> Movies mentions include the ever awful [The Room](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Room_\(film\)) and the slightly less awful [Romeo + Juliet](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romeo_%2B_Juliet). I have complicated feelings about Baz Luhrmann.


	13. Clarity

I am half asleep, I think, but my phone is buzzing near my head. Oliver. How sluggish I am, I almost hang up on him. “ -- Hello?” 

“Hey, Elio.” Wherever Oliver is, it sounds perfectly still. “I wake you?” 

“Kind of,” I prop myself up on my elbow. “But I’m not asleep now. Don’t go.” 

“Okay,” I hear a flick on the other end. Possibly him lighting a cigarette. I am a little bit obsessed with that image and I’ve seen it enough times to summon it up perfectly. The shape of his fingers, the mild slack of the shoulders, the intake of breath, “I think I offended your parents by not eating.” 

“Princess,” I say.

Oliver makes a sound around his cigarette that is not entirely disagreeable. 

“Are you smoking now because you feel anxious talking to me?” I ask. “Because you shouldn’t. I’m.” 

“You’re what?” 

My hand drifts to the waistband of my pyjama bottoms but then I clench my fingers into a fist. “Will you tell me why you do what you do? I don’t think it’s just money. I don’t think it’s because you really like sucking dick either, even if you’re really good at it.” 

“And this is how we start over, is it?” Oliver inhales and sounds halfway amused. I am not sure what the other half is meant to be, but I am hopeful. 

I shrug, “I don’t understand you and would like to. Call it clarity.” 

“You’re going to laugh,” says Oliver. 

I would worship every inch of him if I could. I wonder if he knows this in all of its entirety, “Try me.” 

“I am not a savant as much as you,” Oliver says. “But I try to remember bits I like. Did I tell you I almost studied German during my undergrad? I think I was in love with angst.” 

“You never did tell me, no.” I shake my head. Oliver’s penchant for angst in his youth makes me think of Dad, but I don’t want Oliver to think that he reminds me of my father, so I keep that to myself. But I do take a middle road, “Does everyone get this obsessive over angst?” 

“Speak for yourself,” he laughs. 

“I don’t think I angst,” I say. “I am just unhappy. There is a difference.” 

“I suppose there is,” Oliver’s voice manages to do the slightly mind-bending thing of evoking both a shrug and something else too, that almost sounds like he’s impressed with me. “That’s astute of you.” 

“Thank you,” although his tone is neither mocking nor anything even close to it, my dick twitches. “Will you go on?” 

“What, about how astute you are?” 

“For once, no. About the other thing, genius.” 

“Okay, it sounds weird when you say it to me,” Oliver makes a sound, “And I’m not. I am just stubborn.” 

“That’s not such a bad thing,” I say, busying my fingers so I won’t be tempted. I wind the ties of his sweatshirt around my thumb and forefinger and I wonder if Oliver ever does the same. He seems less fiddly than I am. “Stubborn people are very good at getting what they want.” 

“That’s your big secret, then. Being stubborn as all hell. I almost never get what I want.”

Oliver sounds bitter, it’s a bitterness that almost moves me, even if I know nothing of its origins or indeed, even how to stem its continued hold on its victim, who almost seems paralysed in his attempt to accept it and run from it all in turn. If I were nearby, I wonder if he would have let me hold him. “People pay what I assume is a neat sum to have you touch them. How is that not want? You personify want. Desire, Oliver, if I’m allowed to use that word. I know you’re going to make a face.” 

“I am,” he says, “Next thing you’re going to do, you’re going to compare me to Adonis.”

“Guilty,” I laugh. “Actually, I already have.” 

“Oh, God. To _who_?” 

“Marzia, who thought I was kidding, but came around, even if you’re not exactly her type.” I shrug, “I’m sure you can get over it.” 

“I’m not sure I can,” Oliver sighs. “I’ve got professional bruises all over my ego.” 

“Your cock is king,” I opine. “Or so they say. Feel any better?” 

“Shut it, smart ass.” 

 

There’s a comfortable silence resting between us now. One that feels almost familiar and makes me think we are reading side by side downstairs. Or that we’re just sitting here in my room. I’m a little sleepy again, and it must be late, but I don’t want to hang up just yet. On the other end, is just Oliver breathing.

“Stop avoiding the question,” I say. “And tell me. When have I ever laughed at you?” 

“Armagnac?” He deadpans. 

“I am way over that,” I assure him. “It’s been more than six days.” If Oliver were next to me on my bed (how I wish he were), I would have prodded him with my toe until he gave it up. As it is, I settle for digging my foot idly into a dip in my mattress. “Tell me, I have a good poker face.” 

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” there is a long pause, and then Oliver inhales. Exhales. 

“I was told not to do German, in the end. They said it was a waste of time, and that I’d grow out of it, the angst.” 

“So you did Classics,” I laugh. Oliver doesn’t exactly clarify who “they” are, but I think I know.

“What can I say, I was a rebellious kid.” 

I think that a _de facto_ rebellious kid wouldn’t have turned down a free week in Dublin, but what do I know of anything? I don’t say. 

“Anyway, there was this book,” Oliver says. “I don’t even remember where I picked it up. Maybe it was one of Fiona’s, I don’t know. She left a lot of her shit when she went.” 

“Went?” I remember a Fiona, just vaguely. Oliver had mentioned during the meal with his parents, which I still think about from time to time, but I am sure it plagues his mind all the time. I’ve always thought she was the sister, it was the only thing that made sense to me at the time, my idea of having siblings is confined to the phone calls that Dad sometimes exchanges with Uncle Isaiah. Mom hears from Auntie Patrizia even less, but I know we’re always welcome at her apartment, and I know if she ever set foot in New York, she’d probably vastly prefer a hotel on Madison to our humble abode. But I would hope that she knows she’s always welcome here. 

None of this helps me with Oliver, and Fiona, or Fiona’s shit that she’s apparently left behind. 

“She’s seven years -- no, that’s not what she likes, she’ll like to say almost eight,” Oliver laughs to himself, and it’s not a nice laugh. I’ve heard this laugh before, and I think next time I’ll know better when it comes up. “Anyway, she’s almost eight years older than me so she let for college when I’d barely turned eleven. Basically packed a suitcase and,” Oliver clicks his tongue in again, not a very nice way. “Left. For pre-med at Johns Hopkins.” 

I think I am beginning to understand. 

“What was the book?” I ask. 

“ _Beware of Pity_ ,” says Oliver. “One of the newer translations by Anthea Bell, not one of the antiquated ones. By Stefan Zweig, have you read it?” 

“I don’t angst,” I joke. “Ergo German lit wouldn’t have much appeal to me, would it? Although I read Satre.” 

“Of course you would,” I can see Oliver rolling his eyes. “Zweig isn’t like that. And if you wanted to get fussy, he’s Austrian.” 

“I like it when you get fussy,” I say, and I mean it in all possible definitions. ‘Fussy’ denotes a new side of Oliver I don’t know about yet, and I am a curious boy. I make a note to Google Zweig on Dad’s computer. It is appropriate enough and Oliver likes it. “Tell me more?” 

“You’re in luck,” Oliver laughs. “Zweig is perhaps the least angsty person out there, not that he doesn’t handle suicides and affairs and that sort of thing. The usual German fare.” 

“Which isn’t angsty at all, sure.” 

“Do you want to know or not?” 

There is an edge to Oliver’s voice. I am not making fun of him, although it only occurs to me that perhaps Oliver doesn’t know enough about me to be able to tell. I wonder if he’d like to learn more about me. I am an open book, I think, if he would only ask. If he doesn’t ask questions of himself anymore, he can ask questions of me. “I am not making fun of you,” I assure him. “I want to know.” I think I might fall asleep to his voice. Oliver’s versatile, west-coast cadenced, stupidly accent-free voice. 

“It’s very stupid, in the end,” says Oliver. “But it has to do with a lame teenaged girl explaining to a young lieutenant why she collects clippings of ballerinas.” 

“You identify with a lame teenage girl?” I mean, it is a rather obvious takeaway, and if we get that out of the way right off, we can really dig in to the good stuff. There must be good stuff. I want to be awake for that. 

“Lame as in she can’t walk,” Oliver clarifies. “Not that she’s well, lame.” 

“I’m not a pleb,” I say. “I gathered. But she’s still a teenaged _girl_.” 

“Shut up and listen,” Oliver admonishes and okay, maybe my dick remembers what that’s like, all of the sudden. However, I behave perfectly and I don’t uncurl my fingers. Not even the tiniest bit. Temptation always begins, with just a little bit. 

“Okay. I’ll always listen to you,” I say. And I know that to be true. 

“How does it go?” He muses, I think, mostly to himself. It has become abundantly clear to me that Oliver has never recited it aloud before, whatever bit that is in his head. Sometimes, these things take a while and it is from my parents that I have learned true patience. “... _I think it must be wonderful to use your body, your movements, your whole self to fascinate hundreds and hundreds of people every evening, seizing their imaginations, uplifting them...to show you how stupid I am, I collect pictures of the great ballerinas._ ” 

I get it a little, and maybe I don’t at all. But maybe this is a part of him that Oliver himself no longer knows. He hasn’t the wherewithal to recognize what has moved him in the first place. He must have been moved, once. This is why he hides in his body, his flawlessly, capable, sun-kissed body even during the winter time. And in that way, he is not really like me. 

I think I can say a few things, but what I decide on is, “...I thought you didn’t like sharing yourself with that many people. A crowd of hundreds and hundreds is probably going to give you hives. And I would like to see your tutu collection. Perhaps the next time I drop by?” 

Oliver snorts, “I’m not a teenaged girl.” He says this, as if I need reminding. “And you’re not many people, are you?” 

Something extraordinary is happening to my body. It’s like my very veins are opening up and a new world is blooming there because I am becoming a person that is not many people. For once, the genesis doesn’t start at the tip of my prick. 

“I guess I’m not,” I admit. 

Oliver laughs, “You sound sleepy.” 

At this, a yawn tugs at me. I check my watch, “It is almost two.” 

“Get some sleep, okay?” 

“Stay on the phone?” I say. I put the phone down next to me, and I turn my face towards it, curling myself up very tightly in the expanse of Oliver’s UCLA sweatshirt. “It won’t take me long.” 

I’ve left that wide open for him to drive a hole through. Oliver can make a point about me masturbating, I suppose, and I know I’d deserve it, but then he just laughs, “Whatever you’d like, I’m going to grab a book, but I’ll be here. All right?” 

“Hm,” I say, and close my eyes.

 

48 hours before my appointment -- sorry, _consultation_ with August Ginsberg, I purposely don’t call the humber, so I am stuck going (the horror) or else Marzia is out a hundred bucks. This time, I make sure to tell my parents that I am going into the city to see Oliver and may not be back until the morning. Oliver has, obviously, set himself up in good stead, so this is amenable to my parents and the most important thing is, I didn’t even have to lie. I like that, that relieves me. 

“So Samuel and Annella know you’re going into the city to go see Oliver,” Marzia is kneeling down and examining me between my toes. “Someone likes to live on the edge.” 

I am standing naked in her bedroom and I am self conscious. I have never been the self conscious type really. I am lithe, and on Marzia’s good authority, I look like a cousin of hers who is sometimes in French arthouse films and gets naked a lot (but you know, not porn). But Oliver has never seen the rest of me. 

“It’s the truth,” I say. 

She gives me a look, and runs a hand over the back of my legs, paying slightly more attention to the back of my knees, “I think this is as good as it’s going to get, darling.” 

“You say that as if I’m about to die.” 

“You look it,” Marzia shrugs. “I mean, you’re not going to get naked today, even. I don’t think.” 

I look down at myself. I’ve shaved again, I remember to, because he’d liked that last time, “Sorry I am so obsessive.” I don’t deserve Marzia, she’s the better part of my soul that’s finally breaking away from me making room for someone else. 

“I think you obsess because you finally don’t want to be so unhappy,” she stands and draws me in. Marzia settles her head on my shoulder and I hold her too. “It’s not such a bad thing, Elio. Happiness doesn’t automatically revoke your pass to the bourgeoisie. You’ll live.”

I press a kiss to her forehead, “And we’re still friends for life?” 

“Always.” 

 

Oliver -- August has opted to meet me -- Arthur at a bistro on Amsterdam. I have Marzia’s phone and I am texted the address of the restaurant and a short description of what he’d be wearing, as if I don’t know what he looks like. _plaid. jeans. i’ll have my sunglasses with me._ I don’t think I’ve been here before, which is probably the point. 

As promised, there he is in the corner reading a copy of what looks like a James Ellroy novel. I’ve never read any Ellroy, and wonder if it is to his taste. As I finally enter the bistro and step up to his corner table, I think I would have lost my nerve, except then Oliver looks up.

It takes him a moment, and then he says, “Oh, fuck.” 

“Hello to you too, August.” I say, sliding into the vacant seat across from him. “That is the _worst_ pseudonym for a hooker ever, by the way.” 

Oliver reaches for his cigarettes, and then he realizes that he’s indoors and he can’t do that, “How. What.” Both of those questions stop before they can get anywhere and then he just sighs. “Arthur?” 

“Rimbaud,” I supply. “He was seventeen when he caught the eye of the poet Verlaine, who called him a ‘dear great soul’ and desired him. At some point they lived together below the poverty line in London and Rimbaud stabbed Verlaine in the hand. But but. I don’t want to stab you.” This doesn’t seem to impress Oliver, who appears to be doing an astoundingly accurate impression of his parents being unhappy during Thanksgiving lunch. Genetics don’t lie, after all. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I made a booking,” I say. “I think it’s pretty clear what I want, August.” 

“Stop that, Elio.” 

Someone wanders by and asks me if I’d like something to drink. I ask for an Americano and Oliver asks for beer. He gets ID’d which I’ve never seen before and it is actually pretty funny. Then the waiter wanders away and Oliver tucks his ID and wallet away again. “You don’t have to be fucking shy or anything,” I say. “You’ve sucked my cock. And I don’t know, maybe we both enjoyed it?” 

“That was before,” Oliver starts. “Elio, I can’t in good conscience.” 

“But you want to?” I press. “Tell me you want to. You touch me all the time, and then it’s fucking annoying because you think I don’t notice when you do. Well, you know. I fucking notice.” 

“You’re eighteen,” Oliver says, as if this fact wards off any temptation he might have otherwise felt for me. But I don’t think this is the case because. It can’t be. I won’t let it. “I --” He gets interrupted because our drinks show up and Oliver basically chugs a quarter of his beer. 

“I was stupid at eighteen too,” he says. “And I regret it, how I was stupid. I just don’t want you to. I don’t know. I like you. Perhaps not as ironically as before. What was the word that you used?” 

He likes me. Oliver likes me likes me likes me. Not as ironically as before. What was the word I used? I have to think. It’s like all of his words have forced any other thoughts I have out of my brain.

“Unusually,” I say. “I like you unusually. Except not. I just like you.” Maybe I more than do, but I want to save that for later. I don’t have to think about that now, surely. “I, Elio, like you, Oliver. You’re not your weird parents, you’re just you and I like you. Okay, it’s simple as that. I like you.”

His gaze says he wants to kiss me. I wish. I want. I know I can. 

“Get up,” I say. 

Surprisingly, Oliver obeys. It’s as if my words now have strings attached to him. He even saves me the trouble and comes to my side of the table. I stand too, and it occurs to me that it’s the daring advantage of teenagers everywhere to make out anywhere, especially inadvisable anywheres, even in the middle of a restaurant. But this isn’t like that. So I just lean up and kiss his mouth, for a second. Maybe less than that. I couldn’t even taste anything, but I’ve kissed him. I am over six feet and it is very rare thing that I have to lean up to kiss anyone but Oliver is. 

He presses a thumb against my Adam’s apple. I swallow. 

“Do you want a cigarette?” Oliver says. He waggles his eyebrows just so, and I laugh. 

I didn’t know that I’d been waiting for such a euphemism all my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just start with a thank you thank you thank you!
> 
> Secondly, I am revamping the last parts of the fic so there will be a Chapter 17, as such I hope this will tie you guys over until I figure out what I am doing. 
> 
> _Beware of Pity_ is Austrian writer Stefan Zweig's only novel, it is a piece of beautifully beautifully crafted prose and just wonderful. What is it about Oliver and angst? But honestly, don't read a translation where the title is the more literal _Impatience of the Heart_. The translation by Anthea Bell done in 2011 is probably the most faithful, and yet the most contemporary translation that I know. The trouble with Zweig translations is that they don't tend to age very well. 
> 
> Anyway, babble aside, I hope you enjoy!


	14. Your Life Before You

Except it isn’t a euphemism and we do share a cigarette. I wonder how this usually happens. The films say that Oliver has to wander up to a discerning concierge and ask for a secret hotel room for an x amount of time. 

“Hotels get tricky,” he informs me as he passes me the cigarette. “So the office leases a couple of apartments.” 

Oh, so they do have offices. I inhale from the cigarette and hand it back to him, “You guys think of everything, don’t you?” I am getting better at smoking Oliver’s cigarettes. I just have to think of his spit. 

“Well, people don’t come to us to think,” says Oliver with a shrug. “And I don’t always have to get naked. Sometimes I just get to go to the movies.” 

“Really?” 

“It’s happened a couple of times, yeah. I can’t help it if people like to be seen with me,” Oliver shrugs. "Oh, and high school reunions. I like those. It's like a shower of fucking booze everywhere." 

“Egomaniac,” I say. “Is that where we’re going now? To one of your prostitute apartments leased by your _office_.” 

“You, young Arthur, are still on _consultation_ ,” Oliver quirks one edge of his mouth and he shakes his head, “...But there’s always my room.” 

 

Oliver tells me that Chiara is probably still on a shift and Thibault is presumably out somewhere (with Marzia), so we are alone. We go into his bedroom and turns the lock. Oliver moves to touch me, really _touch_ me, in the way that I’ve always dreamed of. He slips his hands under my shirt and his palms are warm with intent against my skin. 

“I want to kiss you,” Oliver says, as we share an inch of air. “Can I?” 

I swallow, my mouth is either too wet or too dry, I can’t tell which, “...About fucking time.” 

Oliver laughs his wonderfully mocking laugh and I feel hot. I didn’t know there was enough blood to fill both my prick and my cheeks, but he touches my jaw and nuzzles his nose against my skin in a very un-Oliverlike show of affection, and I must be red all over. This is mine. Mine. Mine. He kisses me lightly on the lips and when I lean in to take more from him, Oliver makes a pleased sound from his throat. He presses his thumb into my Adam’s apple again and maybe this is something I’ll come to like very much. Oliver draws me in close and my mouth fills with his spit and his clever tongue.

He backs me onto his bed and I think these are the same sheets from when I last slept here. Oliver lifts my shirt over my head and I am suddenly paranoid again, like if there’s been an inch or two somewhere on my skin that I’d neglected to scrub. 

But I don’t think Oliver notices. All he notices is _me_ , and it is I who fills his vision and even if Oliver has to look away from me eventually, he’s looking at me right now. So intently that the red blush that eventually fills out my cheeks must be from from embarrassment, rather than --

He smoothes a hand over my cheek and cups my jaw, “I still think you’d look nice with a tan. I’ve never seen anyone like you.” 

Another time, I think, when I could get away with anything in the name of irony and liking Oliver only unusually, I could have said something to the effect of, ‘you must see nice bodies all the time,’ and cut it to wound, just ever so because he _must_ be used to that sort of thing, but I can’t. 

“...You see bodies all the time,” I say. “Can you take your clothes off? I want to see you. It’s only fair.” It occurs to me that I’ve never seen Oliver even with his shirt off. Except that once, when we were together in a room in Providence. But it’d been dark then, and I’d been sleepy. I’ve often thought back on the night and I have to admit, I should have remembered it more in detail. I should have turned on the lights. I probably should have done a lot of things. 

But the lights are on now, and --

“Most of the time I’m compensated for sex I don’t particularly enjoy,” Oliver says without anything in his voice. No bitterness or braggadociousness. As if he’s simply stating a fact. “Bodies are different from people, or person. You’ve got a head attached to you, and sometimes I’d like to pull out your tongue.” He kisses me, and I feel his teeth graze the tip of my tongue. I fit my hand around his throat like I did once, when we were on my bed. This time, there is something undeniable about Oliver’s heartbeat because of me, where we are now.

_You are not ‘many people,’ are you?_

“This head and this insufferable tongue would like to see you,” I say, because we can take our time now. I don’t mind playing Oliver’s game. “Apparently it’s worth seeing. There’s a waitlist.” 

He gazes at me for a moment longer and heaves himself up from the edge of his bed. As Oliver begins to unbutton his shirt, he makes a face, “She told you that?” 

I don’t think Oliver is undressing nearly quickly enough. I have decided to be mostly good and patient, but I don’t want him to test me. As far as I am concerned, I’ve passed all of Oliver’s tests with flying colors. Before I can change my mind, I am up from the bed too, and tugging down my jeans and my shorts and I am perfectly wholly naked before he is.

And how Oliver looks at me. That is not the sort of look you give to just anyone. I know it from the books he makes fun of. I feel like the only person in this room. 

“She told Marzia that,” I say, trying for a bit of an ego as I step in close to undo the snap of his jeans and tug them down his thighs. Oliver is half-hard like I am in his boxers, I can tell. And he does look generous but I don’t have a ruler with me. Should I have brought one? 

“I have never felt so thoroughly stalked in my life,” Oliver laughs and if I stand on my knees I am level with a marvellous stone-cut torso. 

“At least I’ve never come to your place asking for you by your porn name.” 

Oliver settles a hand in my hair and tugs, which works out for me just fine, because I get to nose the entire length of his cock, “T-Bow gave me away, did he? And it is _not_ a porn name.”

“Yep,” I slip my hands underneath finally to feel the firmness of Oliver’s ass which I’ve touched once. Maybe it’s better to start with what I know. His skin is warm, and I move from his ass to the inside of his thighs and then I finally pull down his boxers. I can’t tell if he is eight-and-a-quarter inches, but I can already tell he’s bigger than Andrew, which of course he is, and of course I like.

Oliver even twitches obligingly in my hand. His fingers press intently at the back of my neck. 

“...Aren’t you going to look at the rest of me?” 

“In a minute,” I say. I kiss the tip of his cock too, and he inhales, “ -- Are you really eight and a quarter inches?”

“Fuck’s sake,” but there’s a mixture of rough arousal but also an edge of amusement to Oliver’s voice now. I like that, and his fingers say he wants more from me, and I am more than happy to give. I hope that Oliver will learn in time, that I am generous, and that I know things. I lick his prick and follow his vein, all the way to his balls and I give them both a good suck and I can tell by the way that Oliver’s body follows me that he likes it. I am mindful of my teeth, “ -- I’m not really. ‘S more like seven and a half.” 

I would like to keep sucking him off, really. I’d like that very much. Being the sort of person he is he probably doesn’t get blown very much and that’s a shame. Oliver has a lovely cock and it deserves to be treated as if it is king. “You rounded up?” I spit into my hand, and stroke him, my grip firm but not too tight and I love the way he arches into me and I want him to do that again. 

“I’m not in charge of updating the website --” Oliver says, and then he moans, kind of like an extension of the sound I’d heard him make, when I’d had the privilege to last lick over his pulse. It is a wonderful, wanting sound and I feel it travel from the vein in my own neck to dance outside of the line of my ribcage and then finally to the back of my balls. 

I stand, taking my hand off of him deliberately to touch Oliver elsewhere, Pressing my thumb into his belly button like he’s done to me once, passing my fingers over his nipples and pressing my mouth to both of them very gently. Then I look at him. Oliver is the most glorious man I’d ever seen.

“...Are people ever disappointed?” I say. 

“Now you’re making me self-conscious,” he laughs, but there’s something at the back of Oliver’s voice that tells me he’s telling the truth. He draws me in by the back of my neck again and we kiss and kiss. I want to tell him that he never has to be self-conscious in front of me with my hands and my mouth and with my whole being. “Not like people bring a ruler to catch me out. I do okay.” 

I pull back, and still keeping a hold on Oliver, I walk us back to fall on his bed, “You do more than okay,” I say, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this pre-coitally honest or earnest with anyone and I wonder if Oliver knows this. If he’s got some sort of prostitutional sixth sense going on. “You’re,” _sizzling hot_. No, that’s probably going to make him feel even more self-conscious, if Dad is to be believed and Oliver does go in for that sort of thing. 

“You’re the measure of my dreams,” I say. “Except I’ve finally opened my eyes and here you are.” 

A long moment passes, and Oliver touches his nose to mine, “I can’t believe you listen to the Pogues.” 

I kiss him again, “I do like surprising you.” 

 

It is only when Oliver is tonguing my ass and holding just his thumb to the head of my cock (“to make you behave”) that I realize I’ve never paid him for the blow job he’d given me at Thanksgiving. But then again, I suppose my sitting through lunch with his parents is payment in itself. And then Oliver twitches his tongue just so and I keen as I arch against his thumb. I grip his bed sheets instead of his hair because I remember. I want and I need -- 

“Are you always this impatient?” 

“It’s a teenaged peril,” I say, biting my lip. If Oliver can own his professional pride, then I can have my youth. 

Oliver gives me one more generous lick and then moves to fetch what I assume is condoms and lotion or whatever but I don’t think the dildo’s joined us. I should ask about that. I’ll remember I thought that, if I can. 

He puts one on himself and I have to turn my head to look. Oliver sees me looking and wraps his hand around himself.

Then Oliver comes to me again on his bed and I cup his face in my hands, “Okay?” I say. 

I feel him, swollen and wanting against me, but I think he’s still at the precipice because even as I push, Oliver holds still. “Does this make you happy?” 

“You’re reinventing the definition of the word,” I say as my truest self. “But I’d be happier if you’d fuck me. Show me that your cock is king.” 

And that apparently does it, because Oliver does fuck me. He fucks me hard, and well, and I think by the end as I am begging for the last of him, that with each thrust of his hips and each sound he makes against my skin, Oliver is leaving all of his masks further behind. He is me, and I am him. And that’s all there is. 

 

I don’t sleep very well, but when I reach for Oliver, he is there where he should be and it is easy to fall into a rhythm. The crook of his neck, the lazy rutting of our cocks together between our naked stale-sweat bodies, and the warm promises that comes with the taste of each other in our mouths. 

Then an alarm sounds somewhere and Oliver mumbles a swear against the sensitive patch near my nipple and that makes me laugh. 

“...It’s not even six. You set that.” 

I wind my fingers into his hair, “I have school. I need to go home. Shower, jerk off. It’s a deal I have with Dad.” 

Oliver blinks at me a little blearily, “You --”

That probably should have come out better, “...I mean. I need to go to school. That was the deal.” 

He lifts off me and holds his arms open next to me on his mattress. I find a now slightly familiar spot beneath his collarbone and snuggle in, “You have such a life before you. And this is something that you’d like to carry all your life.” Then he twists his head to look at me, holding a bit of an awkward angle. “Are you in love with me, Elio?” 

I wonder if that’s Oliver’s way of telling me that he might be in love with me. “No, but nearly. Is that okay?” 

“Of course it is,” he holds me for a moment longer, and then lets go. Then, as if Oliver has just thought of something and he reaches out to pat my bum before I can escape from his bed completely. I know why that is; this is merely Oliver telling me that he can keep me here all day and maybe, just maybe, he chooses to be magnanimous this time, “Off you go, I’ll see you later.” 

 

“You look like you’ve left your head and your cock somewhere,” is Marzia’s estimation as we settle down for lunch. “And you have a hickey.”

My head is probably somewhere, because I don’t feel a heated blush coming on the way it does usually. However, my cock is still where I left it (I mean, attached to me). It’s what I prefer, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, despite what Marzia might think. “Do not.”

“Yes, you do,” she pokes the side of my neck knowingly. “But don’t worry, I won’t ask.” 

For the first and last time, I am glad she doesn’t. 

 

I’ll save some time, and note that Oliver and I have a lot of sex in the coming days and weeks. It’s like we’ve been starving ourselves and making do. Now we’re just making up for lost time, and it doesn’t matter to me, strangely, that he falls into bed with strangers because he manages to be just Oliver with me. Half of the time, I barely remember that August is another person at all. I suppose that is a testament to my youth. 

I’ve also learned plenty about the dildo and that is great fun. Oliver’s wanting face is a sight to behold and I like it -- more than like it -- when he fucks me while sitting on it. I like to think I’ve convinced him not to be shy, even if a little. It’s fucking. It’s the germination of love (if nearly), one should be honest and wanting. 

“Do you want to know a secret?” 

I think I am filled with secrets all the time. His and his. Oliver keeps pieces of himself with me so he can come and find them later if he loses them, as if I am his anchor when he is lost. As if only the real pieces of Oliver are mine and mine to keep and hold dear until Oliver wants them from me again. 

I touch my mouth to Oliver’s jaw, “...Tell me your secret.” 

“I don’t use the dildo for work,” he shrugs. “I don’t think I could stand it.” Oliver doesn’t say it’s just mine, but that must be what he means. There’s no other way it could mean anything else. 

The dildo is nearby, still slick with the whole of Oliver on it. I suckle at the tip and he tries to slap it out of my grip. 

 

My parents have never minded that I like boys, I don’t think. We’ve never had a proper conversation about it, but Dad’s nearly walked in on me and Oliver kissing on the porch once (although now that I think about it, he was never going to kiss me so maybe that’s never counted) and Mom once walked in on my consoling Andrew after a less than stellar performance of _Nessun dorma_. Oops. 

I have noticed that Oliver makes a conscious effort not to touch me when we are at my house. It is only when we’re in my room, that we can touch elbows in secret and share a thought and sometimes a kiss.. I don’t think I am in a hurry to tell Mom and Dad (but perhaps especially Dad) what they already suspect. It is important that Oliver feels comfortable, and that he doesn’t mind. 

The Friday before spring break, I get an acceptance packet from Yale. I am only a little bit ashamed that the packet includes some financial help which I know we don’t really need. Even though I’ve always known that I’d get in somewhere good, that of course I’d go to university somewhere in the fall, it’s not the same, having the piece of paper to back me up on my certainty is something else entirely. 

“Yale,” Oliver says. 

“Yep,” I say. I am used enough to getting what I want, or so Oliver keeps helpfully reminding me, but I find that my hands are actually shaking. I’ve gotten into Yale. Hopefully, I’ll get into other places too, but I’ve gotten into Yale. My peach has moved someone and perhaps now I can be moved in turn.

Oliver takes my hands into his and steadies me. He leans in to kiss me and I feel a knot loosen in my chest. I don’t know its origin, but I know that it has gone. I laugh against his mouth and Oliver licks my teeth. 

Somewhere outside of the narrow parameters of our kiss, there’s a polite cough. Oliver springs back from me and both of us look a little guilty when we spot Dad in my doorway. I don’t think I can hear Oliver breathing next to me. In fact, I know Oliver is growing smaller by the minute.

“Samuel, I.” 

Dad looks between the two of us, and a moment seems to stretch into hours. I don’t think I can breathe, either, but maybe he looks a bit amused, even if he isn’t doing his telltale eyebrow thing, “...I was just going to pop open some Prosecco. Want some?” 

Somehow, I manage to find my voice. Who knows where it has gone off to, “Yes, please? But in a minute.” 

“Sure,” Dad says, and goes. 

It is another long pause between Oliver and I before either of us find the courage to say anything. Oliver is gripping my arm and probably restricting my blood flow, but I don’t think I have ever seen him so pale beneath his nearly perfect West Coast tan, which has miraculously kept through to even the end of March. 

“Did that just happen?” 

“Probably,” I say. “Please don’t look like you’re about to die.” I grip a fistful of his hair, but of course I take care when I tug, “Hey.”

Finally, Oliver just reaches for me and buries his face into the side of my neck. I hold on dearly to the back of his head, as if my hands can finally now touch the edge of his mind. He makes a noise, I think, but that’s not important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS, after this chapter I kind of just want to run away and hide. I hope this is okay. I do not straight up porn, I just can't. Elio's Pogues reference is from [A Rainy Night in Soho](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSyL-TrD_2g) and I suspect he secretly likes the lyrics, which are very fitting. 
> 
> [Nessun dorma](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nessun_dorma) is from Puccini's _Turandot_. 
> 
> Lastly, follow me on Tumblr @medtnersonata. Because I am a luddite it will just be mostly for fic and chat but come have a chat, I love you all! Hope you enjoy! xx


	15. Fathers and Sons

Although Oliver doesn’t like to share himself with people, I have found, to my great pleasure and somewhat lesser surprise (Oliver is only surprising me less because I have his secrets now and I remember them) that he doesn’t mind being vain with me. In fact, that is something that he’s taught me to like. That perhaps I should not be so afraid to like myself in a way because he is here with me. And I like the thought that Oliver is not really shy and that my father has the rare fortune to be wrong, this time. Because no person not beholden to a bloated ego would even think of insisting that I stand in front of the mirror stark naked except for my socks while Oliver stands behind me with a strong hold on my hips and in turn I grip all seven and a half inches of him as he rolls his hips to push from my mouth the most obscene sounds. Sounds I am pretty sure I’ve never had the occasion to make with anyone else. 

(That I wouldn't want to, with anyone else.)

“...Don’t close your eyes, Elio, look in the mirror.” 

“Oh,” I am admittedly, not very good at keeping my eyes open during sex. Sometimes it’s because I’d rather enjoy other things, like the lovely stretch of a cock (not just any cock, Oliver Oliver’s cock) in my ass, but sometimes it’s because I am afraid that if I look I’ll -- 

“Look,” Oliver says again, his voice rough but also gentle. He moves to wrap one hand around my throat and I swallow to feel him there. He never squeezes and it makes me feel safe. “It’s okay.” 

I look. Oliver’s head is against the soft line of my neck and shoulder and when I twist my head a little to kiss him, I am rewarded with a warm, eager, clever flicker of his tongue and I keen into his mouth. Oliver’s eyes are hazed blue-green like the tip of an ocean wave. 

And Oliver must have liked that, I think, because his next thrust is deliberate and slow, but deep enough to take from me a secret sound that I almost want to hold to myself because, “ _Oh_.” 

“Like that?” 

“So do you,” I say, nipping at his jaw.

“Fuck, yes.” I like the way he says ‘fuck’ now, the roughness of it grazes the lines of my soul and then goes south. 

Somewhere outside of our two-person secret, there’s is the obtrusive buzzing of something I am inclined to think is Oliver’s slightly magical dildo. 

But then he’s pulling away from me, “ -- Please don’t get that?” If I sound needy it’s because I fucking am.

“I just want to know who it is -- where’d I,” Probably because Oliver misses me too, he wraps a hand around his own dick as he tosses the blankets on his bed to look for his phone. At least he’s given me something to look at and I am going to enjoy. 

Then he thumbs at his phone and freezes. 

“Hi, Mom.” 

I go still. Irene is on the other end. I don’t believe that she’s Oliver’s mother half the time, but I rarely think about her to begin with. I go and sit next to where Oliver is standing gloriously naked, but his face has gone ashen and dark. “Mom. Mom. What do you mean he’s --” 

Then, “Fiona’s there with you, isn’t she? Fiona and.” I have come to observe that Oliver chews the inside of his cheek when he doesn’t have a cigarette to distract him. 

“Mom, okay. It’s going to be. I can’t get to the airport today, you know that. But I’ll get out there in a couple of days. Okay. Okay. Mom, Mom I can’t talk right now.” 

Then Oliver hangs up, lets his phone drop back onto the mattress where I think the sound is too loud. The sound is magnified by his expression, which I don’t understand. I touch his wrist, and suddenly it is like he has just remembered that I am in the room. 

“Hey.” 

Oliver breaks my hold on him and instead, takes my hand, “My dad is dead.” 

 

I have never seen anyone die before, of course I haven’t. Or rather, I’ve never heard of anyone dying a death that would affect me personally. I think I was five when B., Mom’s mother died. All Dad told me to do was to give her a hug when she’d needed it. I’d gone to the funeral, of course, but I don’t remember much of it except my tie was a black clip-on and I had to play a simple arrangement of Harold Arlen’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” a song that my grandmother supposedly loved. (I don’t think of it as Judy Garland’s, and I didn’t have to sing.) Mom cried the whole way through, that’s something I remember. The ceremony was not held at a synagogue, but a funeral home. 

None of that helps me with this.

Oliver doesn’t let go of my hand, and he is actually gripping my hand tighter and tighter, almost like he’s crushing my knuckles together trying to push out some of the pain from his body onto mine.

“My. Dad is dead.” Oliver says again. 

I tug at his hand and he sits, nearly collapsing with all of his weight on me. I know not to tell Oliver he doesn’t like Thomas, that perhaps he should feel relief, but other than that, I don’t think I know the right words. 

“Come home with me?” Surely Mom and Dad will know what to do, although the last thing I want is to remind him that I still have a father who loves me. Then, “...I mean, we don’t have to go right away. You can cry first.” 

I don’t say that to be crass or crude. It’s something that Dad said to me once, but I don’t remember why he’d thought I’d needed to cry. His philosophy is that people do not feel grief as much as they ought to because they are afraid. They are afraid of the what they might find out about themselves if they descended down that sort of hole. As if they’ll find weaker parts of themselves and then have to live with it for the rest of their lives. Like it is some sort of shame. 

Oliver sets his jaw, “I am not going to cry.” 

“You don’t have to,” I say. “I am just saying, if you wanted to.” 

“I’m not,” he says again. “I’m going to shower and dress.” 

 

“...Oliver’s Dad is dead,” I say to Dad while Oliver’s in the shower. “I don’t know what to do.” I have dressed and smoothed a hand through my otherwise unruly hair. “I’ve told him he can come home with me, is that okay?” 

“Of course it is,” Dad says. “But I don’t think you should force Oliver to come home with you if he doesn’t want to.” 

Because the bathroom is nearest to Oliver’s room, if I stand next to the door I can still hear the sound of the shower running. Oliver is not one for long showers though, he thinks they are a waste of time, but maybe he is already changing up on me. Or no, that’s selfish both to say and to think.

“I don’t think he should be by himself,” I say. 

Dad makes a noise of assent, “He probably shouldn’t, but that choice isn’t yours to make for him. Just let him know that our door is open to him, if he wants. I’ll see what your mother is making for dinner. I’ll text you.”

“Okay.” 

I don’t think I’m forcing Oliver to do anything if I’m honest, but I am probably not a very good judge of character when it comes to things that I want. From Dad’s estimation I am apparently forceful, and from Oliver’s standpoint I’ve probably gotten everything that I’d ever wanted. But I don’t want Oliver to go again, and I think he might. 

I am lying down on his bed again when he comes in with a towel over his head. I glance at my phone first before I look at him, “Mom’s made gumbo.” 

Oliver considers this, “I’ve only had gumbo once, at Disneyland.”

“I bet it wasn’t any good,” I say. 

“It probably wasn’t. I was under six-feet when I had it,” he shrugs. 

That makes me laugh and I think he looks relieved. I am relieved too, it doesn’t seem like there’s a time or a place to ask whether or not I am forcing him to do anything and maybe if Oliver keeps his eyes on me and thinks of me, then he doesn’t have to think of his father, who is now dead. I don’t know much about ghosts but I think ghosts must have much more of a hold on the superbly unhappy souls of their still-alive sons. 

I hold out my hand to him, “Are you ready to go?” 

 

There’s a part of me that thinks if Oliver wasn’t a prostitute or aiming for a long-term career in academia (actually, is that what he wants to do? I have never asked him), he’d have a promising future in crisis management because you’d never know it, that his father has died, the way he is a bit _too_ himself at our dinner table. As if he is already trying to find his footing without Thomas and he doesn’t know who he ought to be. 

At least, he holds on until the gumbo is cleared away. Mom excuses herself to check on her key lime pie. 

“Apparently, he wasn’t feeling well, and still went to work,” Oliver says over the dregs of his beer and Dad goes and gets him another. “And then. I don’t know, apparently he fell backwards and hit his head and now his office looks like a crime scene. Mom thinks we can’t have an open casket and wants me to talk to the fucking funeral fucking director as if I --” He sucks in a deep breath to collect himself.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to swear.” 

“It’s all right,” Dad says, popping Oliver’s beer and settling it down in front of him. “For the first few days, I doubt you’ll know which way is up.” 

I think it’s unfair that my father can say these things and make Oliver look like he’s about to cry. 

“...Have you booked your tickets?” 

“I haven’t, no.” 

Dad nods, “I’ll have to double check with Annie, but I don’t see any reason why we couldn’t book them for you tonight. Lord knows we have air miles that need using up.” 

“Samuel, I couldn’t possibly,” Oliver hesitates and shakes his head, but unconvincingly. “...It’s too much.” 

“It’s a very small thing to unburden you during a difficult time,” my father says. “But only if you would like. You don’t need to decide right away. There is still dessert to go.” 

 

I end up changing the sheets for Oliver in the spare room, because he sits in the study with Dad nearly midnight after dessert is served and I have no idea what they are saying. I sit with Mom in my parents’ room and she says, as if to assure me, “Your father is very good at this, it’s all the angst. Did you change the sheets?” 

“Yes, Mom.” 

There is something in my voice that gives me away, I think, because the silence from my mother’s end turns into an inquisitive, waiting one. I try to ignore it, but then she doesn’t let me. After a few moments, Mom touches my elbow and says, “Well, you want to ask me something, don’t you, _passerotto_?” 

“It’s okay, isn’t it? What I’m doing.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Just,” I shrug. It feels heavy, “This thing with Oliver.” I am not being coy, calling it a thing. There are days when I think what we are, we don’t need anything. Then too, comes days when I’d fervently wished for even one measly syllable. 

“Oh,” Mom laughs a little and reaches to cradle my head to her shoulder. I go. “I don’t know if it is okay, darling. Only you can stand in any good stead to tell yourself that.” It’s familiar and comforting. But it almost makes me think about what would happen if my own parents were to pass away too. It makes me sick, and the traces of key-lime pie in my mouth almost reminds me of the bile from when I’d last vomited in Oliver’s toilet. 

“Does he make you happy?” 

I nod against her shoulder, “But I don’t know what to do. I want to know what to do.” 

“Sometimes all you can do is wait and give them a hug,” Mom says. “And accept that a little part of them is going to be far away from you for a little while.” 

The thought of any part of Oliver being far from me is a thought that I still can’t stand, even though I have been far from him before and yet so close to him. It is possibly because I am still paralysed by the memory of my own misery from before. I breathe loudly into my mother’s shoulder and I think her lips touches the side of my head. “...Did I help at all, when B. died?”

“Of course you did,” Mom says warmly, pulling me in properly and I go. “Don’t know where I’d be without my constant hug dispenser. The best there is.” 

The door to my parents’ door opens, revealing Dad. He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. I rarely see my father so tired. I wonder if he has taken any of Oliver’s secrets as to unburden him even a little. If he. 

Dad sees my look and manages a wan smile. He comes to the side of the bed and kisses Mom before settling a hand on my head. 

“...Okay?” I roll my eyes upwards, as if my father’s touch could hold the keys to the mind currently hiding in our downstairs guest suite. The last time Oliver had been in there, I’d left him alone with the ghost of his father too, but Thomas hadn’t been dead.

“Why don’t you check on him,” Dad says, although it’s not quite phrased as a question. “And bring Oliver a spare toothbrush from the hallway closet. I don’t think there’s one in the suite.” 

 

Oliver is on the phone. I can hear voices, “I’m sure she’s handling it like she handles everything else.” 

Then, “If you think Fiona won’t bite your head off, I wouldn’t mind being picked up. Yeah. Two in the afternoon. I’ll buy you tacos from the place we like...yeah. Okay man, thanks. See you.” 

I knock.

“Who is it?” 

“It’s me,” I say. The door is open so I go in. Oliver is shirtless, but the blankets on the guest bed cover up the rest of him. I don’t think he’s naked. “...Brought you a toothbrush.” 

Oliver looks at me like he is wound on slow motion, “Thanks.” 

“Can I…?” 

“Yeah, come here.” 

I crawl into bed with Oliver, into the familiar space between his hip and his arm, although now I find myself a little bit suffocated by the space. Oliver is Oliver, but the stain of Thomas is suddenly palpable everywhere. “...Who’s picking you up from the airport?” 

Oliver looks surprised. 

“I heard,” I admit. “I didn’t want to interrupt your phone call.” 

“Rob’s picking me up,” and to this, he adds no other detail, such as why Fiona (I wonder if all her leftover shit is still in Oliver’s house in California) might be ticked at Rob for doing so. If anything, I think Rob is doing Fiona a grand favor, especially if she and Oliver don’t get along. 

“Oh.” 

For a long moment, we don’t speak, and Oliver hooks his thumb around the waistband of my jeans, but moves no further. 

“Are you going to sleep in here?”

“...I was going to go upstairs,” I say. “Would you like me to stay?” 

“I might cry,” Oliver says flatly. “It might wake you.” 

“I am a heavy sleeper,” I say. 

It only takes me a moment to change into my pyjamas upstairs in my room. And then I am back downstairs in the guest suite again. I bring the UCLA sweatshirt with me just in case Oliver is feeling cold. You’d never know, with that west coast sensibility of his. 

He sniffs it before he puts it on, “Bet this hasn’t been in the wash.” 

“Nope,” I aspirate. “I wanted to infect it.” 

“You little sultry disease,” Oliver says with a half-laugh. He and I can hide, I think, but now we hide next to each other and that is better. Perhaps the smell of me on his sweatshirt can make him feel better, too.

We lie facing each other, but we don’t touch. Oliver probably won’t look at me when he cries either. I touch his face finally, and he kisses the tips of my fingers. “...What if I came with you to California?” I say, suddenly struck by a need for intimacy and a rush of boldness that’s come with his being in my house, a place I understand. 

Oliver starts.

“I just want to be there for you,” I say. “Give you a hug when you need it. You don’t have to hide from me, but you could if you want. I just want.” That’s another thing about being young, I think. We never have to worry about time, even in the face of death. “You’re practically part of our family, too.” 

Oliver makes a strange odd sound in his throat. I think it’s the most honest he can be with me, for the moment.

“You’ll have to endure a lot of fast food, it’ll probably make you fat. Mom can’t cook for shit.” 

I use my fingers to pinch myself near my hip, where his thumb is again. “Could probably stand to put on a few pounds.” I say, “I am a goddamn skeleton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hugely insane amount of love and thanks from me to you. Like holy shitballs guys, I am a tiny person who wrote a fic that was kudos'd 500+ times. Is this life? You guys amaze me, the comments are wonderful, thought-provoking and if I could give you all hugs I would. Having a sort of rough time with the last chapter still, but! I am reasonably happy with this one so I thought I'd go ahead and share. 
> 
> I thought a lot about where I'd like this story to go from 14 and wanted to go several directions, wrote it, didn't like it and rewrote it again. I think this is probably the path of least resistance and would offer the most closure. So please enjoy and let me know your thoughts! 
> 
> The only reference worth mentioning I think is that Harold Arlen wrote "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" for Judy Garland and _The Wizard of Oz_ , given the kind of person Elio is he would probably associate the song with Arlen rather than Garland. 
> 
> Also I love Disneyland's gumbo and I make no apologies. 
> 
> Come talk to me at @medtnersonata on Tumblr!


	16. Ordinary People

Oliver and I fly to Los Angeles, with a stop over in Dallas because he needs to use the layover to smoke. He smokes three cigarettes and has one pint. I have one cigarette and one large coke. I call my parents when we land in Dallas, assuring them that everything is on schedule, and they tell me I’ve another packet from UPenn, which they haven’t opened. I want to tell them to throw it out. 

When we land at LAX, I learn more about Rob right away. If I am honest, I am both surprised and not. Rob is a Dr. Robert Mayhew who is also doing his residency at St. Jude’s, the same as Fiona. He is traditionally handsome and just a hair taller than me. Rob is starting to gray, even though he is only thirty-four, but in a way that is kind of considered attractive, George Clooney-like. As we all weather the slow crawl of I-10 in the mid-afternoon, it takes Rob asking if Oliver would ever walk Fiona down the aisle that I realize something. 

“I’d rather die,” says Oliver. “Sure she feels the same.” 

“Strong phrasing,” Rob shrugs. “But I guess I wouldn’t blame you. How you holding up, man?” 

Oliver twists to look at me, for a moment, and I am not sure what the look’s meant to say. But then he turns back to the front so I guess I don’t need to think about things for now, “I’m not sure yet.” 

“Fi’s already made herself an appointment with a therapist,” Rob says. 

“...Should you be telling me that?” Oliver looks at him a little sideways and a bit reproving.

“It’s not as if the two of you talk. What are you going to do, tell on me?” 

Oliver makes a noise that is somewhere between a laugh and something offensive, “Stop that, or I will ask you about your stupid wedding.” 

 

Even though Oliver’s French is atrocious and Belgian, his Spanish, inasmuch as it pertains to the confines of a Mexican restaurant is actually not so bad. I don’t speak Spanish, per se, but the makeup of the pronunciation is largely the same as Italian. Maybe I should suggest that Oliver give Italian a try and hang up the French. Italian is sexier anyway. He orders for both Rob and me, an obscene amount of lamb and fish tacos (although they are not that big), a large plate of tortilla chips, what can only be described as a gratuitous _tub_ of guacamole, and other little odds and ends, mostly cups of different-colored salsas and some diced onion. I don’t think Mom’s ever made tacos at home, although she did make fajitas once or twice. 

“That,” Rob says, “is the most absurd face that I’ve ever seen anyone make at guac. And I should know. My fiancée is as finicky as anything.” 

Oliver snorts and helps himself to a taco and dribbles a generous amount of salsa over the lamb, and then tops it off with a gloop of guacamole -- sorry, guac -- might as well pick up some of the local vernacular while I’m here. No wonder Oliver doesn’t have a discerning palate. He sees me looking at him and gestured with his other hand that’s mostly clean. 

“Eat, it’s not like the tacos’ll bite,” to Rob, Oliver merely shakes his head, “Nah, Elio’s got your girl beat by _miles_.” As if it’s something for him to be proud of. 

 

After the meal, Oliver asks Rob if he’d be amenable to driving him by the funeral home and even though Rob hesitates, Oliver insists and wins. I think he is beginning to get the hang of this game, the one where people feel a bit sorry for him and by virtue of that, he gets what he wants. Stubbornness helps. 

Rob parks us in front of the funeral home and part of me suddenly thinks that Oliver looks very tired, although he seems more at home here in California, less put on, if now held down by a different sort of weight. 

“Do you want me to come with you?” I ask, I think I know what the answer is going to be, but this is one thing that I’ve learned from this. I have learned that Oliver will never get the chance to answer me if I don’t ask him questions. 

Oliver says, “It will be boring.” Which, I note, isn’t exactly a no. 

I want to take his hand and give it a squeeze, but I am mindful of the fact that perhaps Oliver lives a different life at home, a life that doesn’t involve all the pieces that he’s shown me. By the way Oliver and Rob talk, I have come to the conclusion that Rob probably knows things that I don’t, but I want to believe that some of the things that Oliver has given me are mine and mine alone. 

“I don’t mind.”

Oliver shrugs, “Well, come on then.” A glance to Rob, who just shrugs and takes out his phone.

“I’ll be here.” 

 

It occurs to me, that I’ve not kissed Oliver since we were in the airport in Dallas. It’d been just a tiny fleeting kiss, outside in the smoking area once we’d sucked the last from our respective cigarettes. I’d also done so before I remembered where we were, but something had told me we were never going to be there ever again, and maybe I’ve already been in all sorts of airports, enough to know that we were never going to be anything other than invisible.

I take his hand, and am surprised to see that Oliver lets me and squeezes my knuckles. He is willing to share his pain with me, and it is perhaps the fact that I have no real pain of my own, that I am the perfect vesicle. I can always carry a part of Oliver’s pain with me, should he need to touch it and remind himself just who he is, and who I am too. 

“Okay?” I say.

“I’m just going to lie back and think of tacos,” he barely glances at me. “And how _offended_ you looked.” 

“I feel like I’ve ingested enough grease to last me a year,” I roll my eyes. “If I wake up tomorrow and cease to be svelte, it is going to be all your fault.” 

“A year!” Oliver snorts and I can hear the incredulousness and probably what is faux-indignation coursing through his inhale and exhale, “Aren’t we a little drama llama.” 

“...So now you’re representing the nineties?” 

“Represent, yo,” Oliver holds up two fingers in a gesture that might have come off as rude on the continent, but it makes me giggle. I am so fucking relieved when his laughter mingles with mine after a beat. It’s important to me, more than ever, that I can make Oliver laugh, too. Then he touches the side of my face and I lean in closer towards him.

And we might have kissed, except then a woman holding a clipboard strides to us in purposeful clicks of her high heels. Even so, Oliver dwarfs her when he stands up. I stand too.

“Are you Oliver? I’m Shana, we spoke on the phone; you’re here to discuss the body of Thom--” 

“Yes, yes I am.” Oliver shakes her hand perhaps a little vigorously. He interrupts her too, as if he can’t bear to hear the whole of his father’s name spoken aloud. “Thanks for seeing me, I know it’s short notice.” 

Shana smiles a tight, practiced smile, “We are here to help you, Oliver. If you’d like to come through and…” she trails off, as if she’s just noticed me for the first time. “Are you --”

I look to Oliver, whose face is suddenly insurmountable once more, “I don’t know. Am I?” 

Oliver hesitates, and finally sets a hand on my shoulder, “I’d like to do this by myself,” and then he shakes his head, as if realizing that he hasn’t found the right words. “...I,” his Adam’s apple bobs almost violently as he swallows. If I press my thumb against the hollow of his neck I might yet bring him some peace, “think I need to do this by myself. Okay, Elio? Wait outside with Rob. I won’t be long.” 

 

It’s bright for April, and in the sky overhead, there’s not even a hint of a promise of coming rain. I am wearing a cotton longsleeve, but something tells me that I should have had the foresight to pack lighter for the west coat. It’s not really like me, that’s all. Rob’s car is one out of three in the lot and I can see he’s on the phone. I can give him some time. 

I shake out a cigarette and then realize I don’t have a light. Or not.

After another moment of painstakingly checking that I don’t have a light anywhere on my person (a performative really, I think Rob sees me), I go and knock on the window on the driver’s side. When he notices me, I gesture to my cigarette. He nods and rolls down the window, moving to fumble for something in the glovebox; in doing so, Rob has to tuck his cell into the narrow space between his shoulder and his ear, “...Where did I -- no, Fi. Wasn’t talking to you. Yes, I’m still here.” 

“Fi. He’s come all the way from fucking New York to do what you and Irene apparently can’t or damn refuse to. Of course I’m, yes we did go for something to eat.” Rob makes a quasi-hissing sound between his teeth, one that I’ve heard Oliver make before. Rob’s noise, I think, denotes almost the same thing that Oliver’s, that he is pretty irritated all around. 

Finally, Rob unearths a lighter from the mysteries of his glovebox and clicks it before handing it to me. 

I mouth thanks and he waves me away. 

 

It is only when Rob gets off the phone that he joins me outside. “Bum one?”

“Sure,” I hand him my pack. I watch him carefully pick out a single cigarette without disturbing the rest of the pack. I decide I like the way he moves, measured and exacting. I light him, and Rob’s inhale even makes me feel relieved. 

“I’m trying to quit before my wedding,” Rob tells me. “But it’s not until a couple of months. Got plenty of time, right?”

I wonder if Rob is trying to suss me out. He’s given something of himself, a slightly shameful thing, perhaps in hopes that I’d give him something back, trust him with something of mine, or perhaps Oliver’s. It’d been important to me that I come to California with Oliver, to the extent which when he’d agreed to let me, I’d carefully passed by other details, because I didn’t want Oliver to think too much about them, either. When face with Rob at the airport, Oliver had merely put his arm around me in a way that must come off as west coast broish, and pointed his chin towards both us in turn, “Elio. Rob. Rob. Elio.”

As if that’s gone and explained everything. On the other hand, I don’t want Oliver to explain anything about else us to someone like Rob.

“Sure,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll ever get married.” 

Rob inhales and exhales again, “Strong phrasing,” he says again, like he’d done when Oliver had professed a preference for death over taking part in his half-sister’s wedding. “That’s what I thought too, once.” 

I am more used to having this sort of _tête-à-tête_ with Oliver, but okay, if this is the way Rob wants to play this, I know this game because I’ve had the long advantage of a better sparring partner and I probably read more than Rob does, “When you were my age?” 

“I’m not you,” Rob says. I don’t think he means it in any sort of negative way, but what he wants to imply, I don’t think I can puzzle it out just yet. Oliver did say he wasn’t going to be long. “No, when I was a bit older, say, Oliver’s age.” 

Rob is not me, but now I wonder if some part of him that regrets not being as I am. I do not think I am being particularly obtuse or even stuck up by suggesting that Rob wants to somehow become or not become me. That’s not something you say to someone, that you are not them, because that is something they ought to know already. The only person that doesn’t know is the person trying not to be swept away from themselves. I wonder what else I’ve taken from Rob that he suddenly needs to take the whole of himself away from me. 

“I know that,” I say. “Why do you want to get married now?” 

Rob shrugs. The gesture, I think, makes him seem both resigned and wise and (most everyone would probably hound me for this, but I can think this) _old_. Worlds away from me and not me in the slightest. “I’d like kids.” And then Rob looks towards the funeral home and sweeps his gaze towards his car. 

“Hey, Elio. Tell me the truth.” 

“Maybe,” I say. “About what?” 

Rob points his chin towards the building, “How’s he doing?” 

“Hiding,” I say. 

For some reason, my answer makes Rob laugh. 

“What’s funny?” 

“Nothing it’s,” Rob looks at me. “I can tell why he likes you.”

“Meaning,” I train my eyes on him and will the end of my cigarette to last, because otherwise I would just be staring at him and that would be (I am conscious now of the Oliver-voice that sometimes chastises me for being a creepy little savant) weird. 

“I am a doctor, Elio,” Rob shrugs as he drops his cigarette to stub it out; the trajectory of his motions is mostly Oliver. “I try to mean what I say. I don’t have books to tell me something means what, like ten different things. I mean I can tell he likes you.” 

I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me. I don’t mean to be antagonistic to near strangers, but I also don’t like being insulted by doctors. “You --” 

“Stop whispering,” comes Oliver’s voice behind us, a touch annoyed. “And let’s get out of here, yeah?” 

“You got it,” Rob gets to Oliver before me, and claps him on the shoulder. I watch that touch with an eagle eye and all the the creep my savant instincts can muster, there is nothing even vaguely inappropriate about the way that Rob’s just touched my. Whatever Oliver happens to be. “Just got a call from the Furies anyway. Let’s face the music, yeah?” 

 

“So how did it go?” I say, because suddenly I feel as if there is no room left for me. I can’t imagine why I’d possibly feel that way because it is not as if. 

“It was fine, I’m out half a grand so they can stuff some wax or some shit into the back of my old man’s skull so he can pass as a human being for however long for the whole of the. But it’s all.” Oliver sucks in a deep breath, “-- Fucking fine.” 

I reach forward and grip Oliver’s shoulder, so that Rob won’t get there first. Oliver puts his hand over mine and Rob doesn’t even flinch. 

“...How much trouble are you in?” Oliver says to Rob after he makes a final turn into a cul-de-sac. The houses are compact, suburban, nice enough but nothing like our house. I suppose the comparison isn’t exactly fair. 

“I told you to stop worrying about it,” Rob says; the house he finally pulls up to is painted a slightly nauseating, but vintage Americana yellow. “But I will warn you that she’s here, so you’ll get both of them at once.” 

“Jesus,” Oliver’s hand leaves mine to press against his temple. “What does she. Actually, don’t answer.” 

“Good man,” Rob takes his keys out of the ignition and pops the trunk for Oliver. There is already another car on the drive, a tiny red convertible. 

I get out too, and Oliver hands me my suitcase first before lifting out his own, “Got it?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I got it.” 

The door to the house opens, and a woman comes out. Not only is she too young to be Irene, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. However, I’ve seen people pissed off before and she’s ringing all the right bells. Even with the mild curl of simmering anger twisting her mouth, I can tell that she’s pretty. Her eyes are dark, not like Oliver’s bright blue. 

“Hi, Fi,” Rob says. He greets her like someone would greet a dog with all of their hackles up. It’s probably also worth noting that this is probably a quotidian part of his daily life, which should be worrying. But Rob looks like he can take care of himself. 

“Don’t,” she cuts him off very severely. “You have no business leaving a busy shift to --” 

“Fiona,” Oliver interrupts. “Stop it. I asked him to. ‘S all on me.”

“Oliver,” Rob starts. 

“Well, you shouldn’t have asked,” she whirls on him. Fiona doesn’t even come up near enough to Oliver’s shoulder, so there is something almost tragicomic about the way this all looks. “You have lost the fucking _right_ to ask my future husband to do anything. And there’s plenty of food in this house! Irene’s up to her ears in condolence pies. Not that she won’t throw it all out the ungrateful --” 

Oliver blinks, “They still do that?” 

Rob says, “Fi, stop. God’s sake, stop. It’s also his Dad. We are all family.” 

I am not quite sure what this is, but I’m sure I can puzzle it out, I’m nearly there, anyway. All the world’s a stage; all the players are present, now who’s killed the king? Was it the butler in the kitchen in the iron poker? Somewhere, I hear my name being called. Like a bell through a fog growing growing closer.

“Elio.” 

I snap up, “Yes?” 

“Can you take my suitcase in too? My room’s the one downstairs.” 

Oliver and I hide together, but now I’m mindful of what Mom’s said to me, too. Perhaps a part of Oliver will be far away from me for a little while and that’s not something I should be afraid of; in a way, I can see she what she means now. It’s so easy to get lost in the pieces you think are distant, as if the parts of someone you hold are suddenly no longer of any value. “...I can do that.” 

Handling two cases is a bit tricky. I try as much as I can not to use it as an excuse to eavesdrop, even if I can tell that Fiona has much more to say. 

 

I don’t know if I’ve ever thought about where Oliver lives. Having seen his apartment in the city, I am happy enough with that.Though sometimes, I do think he is selling himself a little short, especially if he’s got extra income.

This house is not anything like that. I find the door unlocked, so I help myself. The hallway inside is narrow and I hold the door open with my hip as I lug both of the suitcases inside, first Oliver’s and then mine. I don’t make a lot of noise, but I am a little surprised that no one comes to help me. I don’t see a shoe rack so I don’t bother taking off my shoes. 

Oliver’s house (is this house even Oliver’s? Or dead Thomas’s or absent Irene’s?) is a house in its most functional state. There are no photographs of the family, where in our house, pictures are present, tastefully done, but maybe the spatial awareness between them need to be negotiated once in a while. Usually, I am not consulted when these rare decisions do occur, but honestly, I think I should be, given how front and center I am in the majority of those photographs.

Passing through the living room, I see that someone (probably Irene, or maybe Fiona, though who knows who she is in this house least of all me) has spread out copies of slightly outdated issues of _Better Homes and Gardens_ on the coffee table, as if to waylay any suspicion that this is a tasteless, empty house. But maybe it is not empty; it’s just an ordinary home filled up with long ignored, yet entirely ordinary unhappiness that only visits its guests. 

I look for a downstairs bedroom after wandering the length of the living room. I find the bathroom, and then the kitchen, and on the counters there are indeed some pies. Mom’s puts most of them to shame. 

“...Oliver?” 

I turn. I do not know why a guilty well of feeling has come up to my ribcage and submerged my heartbeat. It is likely because the version of Irene that I have in my head professes to like me, and would brave the rotten Big Apple for the sake of my Brahms, is also the Irene who doesn’t say two words to her son at dinner and would call for Oliver only in such a way because Thomas is gone now. 

And then I feel bad for thinking that because. I don’t know. 

Ducking out of the kitchen, I see Irene in the living room. Maybe she smells like gin and she does look like she hasn’t had much sleep. As if the shock of it all is still sustaining her wakefulness. She wants to hide, but Oliver is better at hiding than his mother will ever be. But I think she is the origin of all this, she has to be. 

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just me, Elio. I was um. Looking for Oliver’s room.” And then, “I’m really sorry, Irene.” 

Irene looks like she doesn’t recognize me. And then she says, “Oh, yes. Elio. Oliver did say you were…” She doesn’t seem to know how to finish this sentence. “His room is this way.” 

She points me, and I find myself standing in a room that’s buried in a corner. The room is entirely too small and there are bookshelves nailed a little haphazardly to the wall as if their existence will create a little more room. Irene stays by the door as I move to drag Oliver’s suitcase inside, but not my own because I am mindful. 

“I’ve been such a bad mother,” Irene says. And then it’s like again, that she’s not quite recognized the words that’s falling out of her mouth. “I. We don’t have a guest room, Elio. But I can get you some pillows and blankets and. Whatever you need.” 

I don’t know why Irene has told me she is a bad mother, but I am glad I don’t have to think about it, for now. “The sofa’s fine. Thank you.” 

It isn’t until she gone away, leaving Oliver’s door-frame to frame a strip of off-white that I remember how to breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there are any references in this chapter (except maybeeee a tribute to "Somewhere That's Green" from _Little Petshop of Horrors_ if one squints), along with a nod to the 1980 film of the [same name](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ordinary_People) in the chapter title, but as ever, a huge, huge thank you! This thing has bloomed to 18 because I wanted to add an epilogue, but I should be posting both the last chapter and the epilogue at the same time. xx
> 
> Come visit my faily Tumblr @medtnersonata. :)
> 
> [Edited to add: for the geographically discerning folks, I am talking about St. Jude's Medical Center in Orange County, rather than St. Jude's Research Hospital in Tennessee.]


	17. The Rain Comes

“Well, we’re glad you’re taking care of yourself, Elio, and not red as a lobster as the sun cooks you alive!” My father is one of the smartest men I know, but even he is not immune to what I’ve recently realized that kids my age call ‘Dad jokes.’ That is, jokes that are so bad that you’d wonder about the mental capacity of its teller, but I’ve been suffocated by Oliver’s house and Irene’s question for the better part of the last two days and I am just grateful -- the warmness of it is palpable through my veins previously parched -- to be able to laugh. 

“Dad, I’m indoors most of the time and it’s only _April_.” 

“The cruelest month can do the cruelest things.” Dad shrugs at me and touches the bridge of his nose to adjust his glasses, “We’re allowed to worry. Mom also wants to know if you’ve been gaining weight.” 

I pinch myself, “Nope. But I miss her cooking.” 

“You just wait until the Freshmen Fifteen gets you.” Then Dad says, “How’s Oliver?” 

Although Dad is pretty good about telling me things I would like to know, I am suddenly very aware that he might not be so forthcoming about what he and Oliver had talked about in the study. It’s the niggling uncertainty that always rises to the front of my mind when I prepare that question on the edge of my tongue. 

I always keep it to myself, in the end, “I think he’s in his room.” At the moment, I am lying down on my makeshift bed in the living room. The couch is old, but it sinks in just the right way and I don’t think my bones will remember this place for long. I’ll be determined to forget. “Hang on.”

“Hanging,” says Dad and I roll my eyes as I go to the corner bedroom. The door is partially ajar but I knock anyway. 

“Yeah,” comes Oliver’s voice. 

“Dad wants to say hi,” I poke my head in the room. Oliver is spread out on his bed and writing in his black book. He’s only got a single mattress and I wonder if he’s ever had the occasion to fall off his bed. 

“Come here,” he pushes himself up to a sitting position and pats the space beside him. I sit down and Oliver waves to Dad on the screen, “Hi, Samuel.” 

“How does it feel to be back home?” Dad says. 

Oliver shrugs, “ ‘S all right. How’s Annella?” 

“Lamenting having to cook for two,” Dad laughs. “I mean, I can eat but,” he adjusts the screen so that we can see him patting his stomach. 

Oliver laughs, and I press my thumb into his spine. 

“Don’t think I’m much help, now.” 

It’s true, I think. The last time I’d seen Oliver eat properly was when we’d gone to get tacos with Rob. Of course we’d eaten since then, but I wonder if. “Why don’t we get something to eat? We can eat something that I hate and balloon together.” 

Oliver just looks at me. 

Dad says, “Yes, go get yourselves fed. I’ll trust you, Oliver, to get Elio practicing for the Freshman Fifteen! Speak soon?” 

“Bye, Dad.” We both wave. 

 

Oliver informs me that he no longer has a car. He’d sold it for five hundred when he’d gotten confirmation that he’d be moving to New York. It’s why we are driving Thomas’s car now to the nearest In-N-Out where Oliver orders me a four-by-four and a side of animal fries; he orders the same for himself and is the most gleeful that I’ve ever seen him. None of this makes any sense to me until the food actually arrives. A four-by-four is apparently some monstrosity that happens to pass for a burger with four patties with cheese. Animal fries are fries doused in some kind of sauce. Maybe an atrocity akin to thousand island dressing but not quite that, either. 

“I hate you,” I say. 

“You did say we’d balloon together,” Oliver shrugs. “I’ve got one too.” 

“Yeah, but look at you.” 

“Meaning?” Oliver takes a huge chomp out of his burger. I think he’s trying to smirk at me, but I am relieved that he doesn’t quite manage to succeed with his mouth full. Then again, he’s never been an elegant eater. He can get away with this, and I --

“...How am I supposed to eat this?” I try one of the fries and the sauce is heavy and salty. This does not bode well for my tryst with the four-by-four. Oliver has since swallowed and taken a sip of the Neapolitan milkshake that he insists we share, yet another token order from the secret menu. I get the feeling he really misses In-N-Out.

“I am not going to dislocate my jaw.” 

“...Do you want me to order you something else?” He sighs through his nose, a bit exasperated. “Drama llama.” 

I snort, “Well, if it means so much to you.” 

All and all, I do have to admit that it is not an awful burger and I don’t dislocate my jaw, but I am not going to vocalize to Oliver my general satisfaction, if only because no cheeseburger has a right to be...that. 

“Okay,” Oliver sucks at the last of the milkshake. “See, not that bad.” 

I still wince at the soggy remains of the animal fries. Those are a travesty and I don’t know why they exist, “The burger does not make up for this. What is _this_?” 

“Told you,” I know Oliver is doing this just to annoy me, but old habits die hard and I have to stare when he mops up the rest of my fries and then licks his fingers, “I like this sauce. Stop salivating.” 

“It’s the creep in me, darling. I can’t help myself. It’ll kill me if you stop,” I deadpan. “Has my mother taught you nothing?” 

As soon as I’ve said it, I wish I hadn’t. Oliver’s jaw twitches and he turns away from me. I don’t know what I’ve said. 

“...What.” 

I am suddenly aware that I have eaten well beyond my means. Maybe I am going to be sick. 

“Are you never going to ask me what Samuel and I talked about? Or you know, about anything else?” 

I look out the window, “Would you tell me? And not sound like you’re breaking up with me when you’re doing it?” I’ve asked him that once before, were we breaking up, and Oliver’s answer then had been the worst thing that my hungover mind could imagine. I am sober now, but I wonder if, while he wears that face, if he could come up with an answer worse than the one he’d given me in his kitchen. 

“I’m.” Oliver looks to be mulling something over. Then he just does a little gesture that epitomizes ‘fuck it,’ and shakes out a cigarette. When he rolls down his window, I do the same. “You know, it’s like this. When somebody dies, especially your own old man, you look at your life. And then you think, wow, my life is a piece of shit. Which isn’t a terrible surprise because hey.” He drags hard on the cigarette. When Oliver finally offers it to me, I decline. He doesn’t look like he can bear to part from it. 

“It’s not really,” I say. “You’ve got me. And my parents. And.” I wonder if that’s not worth anything now, in the face of death. 

“What do you know about it?” Oliver says, “It’s precisely because you _don’t_ know, Elio, that you’re even here now.” 

I set my teeth. I refuse to grow smaller, the way he likely wants me to. Oliver needs this from me and maybe I have just about enough strength to take this from him. “I’ve always known you were a horrible person.” Halloween seems ages and ages ago, but it comes back to me in a clear instant. “I knew that. And I knew that was how you wanted to come off to people because. Okay, I don’t know why. But Oliver, you being horrible isn’t fucking _news_.” 

I don’t think I know anything about what I’d like to see from Oliver then. I think I see relief but that must be wishful thinking. 

For a long moment, Oliver doesn’t speak, “Mom’s from bumfuck Iowa somewhere. She’d said once, to someone on the phone, who knows who. Maybe a new guy, that one of her proudest moments of her life was to tempt a man from his wife. God knows how Fiona managed to live in that house when we moved in. I don’t hate her, you know. I just. We were okay once. She was actually halfway nice to me. She was just really unhappy in that house. She and Rob are practical people.” He inhales, exhales, “They’re not mean people for the sake of it, only artists and writers can do that, we think too much.” 

“Or Germans,” I offer.

“Or Germans,” Oliver looks at me for a moment. He raises a hand, perhaps to touch me, but then decides against it. I am only happy about this because his flingers are tainted by animal sauce. (I don’t think that is what it is called, but I don’t give a fuck.) “Do you really listen to everything I say?” 

“Yes?” Even if Oliver doesn’t want to say much, I am still always listening. 

“No one does that,” he says.

“I am not many people,” I tell him. Maybe Oliver needs reminding. 

Oliver starts and stops, “Because I need you to be, or because you are?” Truth to be told, I have to commend him for this particular strike. It’s rather lovingly crafted and hits me where it hurts a little. But that too, holds its own brand of meaning because Oliver has thought about this, how to wound me in a way that would count. 

I put a bit of spit on my thumb and reach to press it against Oliver’s Adam’s apple. He swallows and waits. 

“I told Rob I never want to get married,” I say, because I think Oliver is testing me again. If I can wound him just as lovingly he will let me stay. “But you know, there’s something about for better or worse. That another person can come to you as they are. I think it’s comforting, ordinary maybe, but I was never anyone waiting to made into someone else. I am just me, and I met you.” 

“The fuck did that come up?” Oliver swallows again, and I graze the bump very lightly with my fingernail. 

“He told me Fiona was trying to make him quit before the wedding.” I use her name, because I know it now. The fact I am in possession of Fiona’s name as as Rob’s future wife (as she so conveniently reminded the whole street just the other day) means that I also know other things. Oliver’s face shifts and tells me without any words that I am nearer in my suspicions than he’d like me to be. 

But what really clicks in the last piece in the puzzle for me, I think, is the sound that Oliver makes through his teeth by pushing through air, a gesture that seems wholly inherited from Rob but perhaps years away from him has forced Oliver to make changes to the sound and the the motion so that Rob has mostly gone from it. And his unhappiness are his parents’. His uncertainty is Irene’s and his everything else, maybe everything that he’s ever hoped for and failed to do belongs to Thomas. Thomas, who is scheduled to be stuffed with wax or whatever and buried tomorrow. Oliver is a hodgepodge of other people because he can’t stand to be himself. 

“...Was he not very nice to you?” 

Oliver sighs and flicks his cigarette out the window. 

“Can’t we go get a drink first?” 

 

After the travesty that is Oliver subjecting me to In-N-Out, I don’t know why I expected the follow-up to be better. We end up buying a bottle of the most expensive red from 7-11 and drive to a park. Oliver turns the car off after he parks us under a tree. 

“I feel like I’m dealing drugs,” I say. 

“You’ve clearly never been to a pickup,” Oliver snorts as he unscrews the cap. “ ‘Sides, we can go to a dispensary for that sort of thing. Here.” 

I take the bottle as he passes it to me. Swig, wince. 

He shakes his head at me, “At least it’s not out of a box, hey? Give it.” 

It occurs to me as he takes another gulp of wine that we are probably going to be here for quite a long time. Stuck in a parking lot drunk. I have my practice license, but my parents are always happy for me to bum a ride, or I could take a taxi or worse, finally resort to public transport. So there’s never been that hurry and I couldn’t now anyway, because I have drank from the bottle already. 

“We used to do this a lot,” says Oliver.

“Who?” 

“Me and Rob.” 

It’s weird, because I’ve known this in the back of my head ever since Rob had felt the need to say he wasn’t me. To hear Oliver say it suddenly gives that thought not very nice dimensions. Not quite like Rob is suddenly in the car with us, no. But perhaps that he is standing nearby and listening. 

“...How old were you?” 

Oliver drinks more wine, passes it to me. “He gave me my first cigarette, said it was what doctors ordered for anxiety, but I didn’t get to do anything with him until two summers after that. I was seventeen. And your question is unfair, Elio. He was nice to me. Still is.” 

“I can tell,” I say. 

“Can you?” This seems to surprise him. 

“It’s a sense,” I look at him and fit my mouth around the rim of the bottle. Then I release the rim with a pop. “It’s a sense you get when two people have gazes who meet at someone else.” 

Oliver tries for levity, “Don’t I feel attractive. Where’s that from?” 

“Some play, I think,” I shrug and finally drink some wine. “Don’t remember. You’re fucking attractive.” 

Oliver gestures for the wine and I pass it to him. He drinks, but doesn’t speak. 

“Do you think that you are ruined by what Rob did?”

Oliver looks at me evenly, “We both did. But maybe if.” Another pause, “I lied.”

The non-sequitur surprises me, but maybe it doesn’t. Oliver puts on masks every day, “About what?” 

Since I didn’t have a cigarette earlier, I choose to have one now. We both roll down our windows. Oliver lights me. 

“When you were really drunk in my room,” Oliver says, examining the label on the bottle, “You said to me you didn’t think you could love. The only kind of love you knew was in books, and it was all fucking stupid. I kept thinking if I’d said that to Rob, had the sort of courage you had. But having gone through it myself, and what came after, that shitstorm with Dad, and that continuing shitstorm with Fiona...”

“Do you wish you’d done that?” My mind is racing and I think that all my blood must have gone immediately north to my synapses, because I think my heart has nearly stopped beating with all the blood loss. Maybe I feel dizzy.

“What do you mean?” Oliver asks, a touch on edge. 

I shrug, “...Confess to Rob. I’m guessing you didn’t. But you think about it. If it would have stayed with you another way.” I have to pause to think for a moment, “in a way that doesn’t make you wish that you were less stupid at eighteen.” 

Oliver puts his mouth thoughtfully to the rim of the bottle, “I was stupid.”

I don’t know if I can convince him.

“So did you, or didn’t you?”

“I didn’t,” Oliver says. “I told you before, I am not as much as you. You’re much better than me.”

I shake my head, “Have you always thought so little of yourself?”

Oliver gives me a long look and then takes a small sip of the wine, “I am nothing if not the insurmountable distance between my lameness and my tutu collection.” Which, I know isn’t from Zweig, but I listen to everything Oliver says; the ear is the master of the story. I think I understand.

“-- What happened?” Because if I ask what happened, it would hurt less too. At the very least, it would give me a little solace. I had almost confessed to love him and Oliver’s reaction was to throw me neatly out of his apartment and tell me that we were not anything. Even if Oliver’s hesitations are his and not mine, everything he is, is mine anyway. I don’t mind it, the whole of Oliver, of course I don’t. 

“...Fiona followed us,” Oliver says, after a spell of silence and also after a generous gulp of wine. “Quite near here, actually. And I know it’s probably very strange for you to think about, but I was afraid of Dad. Nearly got thrown out of the house. If not for Mom. We -- we don’t talk about it.” 

I think of Irene in Oliver’s doorway. I think it will take time, but they can talk about it, if eventually. It'd been in Irene's voice; I allow myself some hope. 

I blow smoke out the window and Oliver hands me the bottle. Our fingers touch and the bottle hovers very neatly aligned with the stick between our seats. Neither of us let go. 

“Rob has chosen his unhappiness,” I say, brave, bold, and youthful. “You can choose something else. Nothing is stopping you.” I don't add that I think Rob has chosen such an unhappiness to spare Oliver, if only because it seems like Oliver would also do such a thing out of deference for me. If I were feeling slightly more daring and out of body, I might have added that it wasn’t necessary that Oliver find his self and happiness with me. But I can’t bear to. I want it to be with me. I want that. 

A long quiet passes and my head swims. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” Oliver announces. He lets go of the bottle to touch the side of my face, and I barely manage to keep hold of the bottle on my own. But I do, of course I do, because I am my own person. I hold on to things of my own volition. 

He touches my face and I taste wine on his breath and if we were a touch more sober, I think both of us would have realized how uncouth and how unsound this is. I am holding an open wine bottle and I am still holding a lit cigarette in my other hand. 

But I nose at his cheekbone and Oliver holds tight to the back of my neck to keep me still. I press my nose into his skin and I think I feel something wet. I touch the same spot again just to make sure. 

“You’re going to make me into Sibyl Vane; I might be fucking poor, but,” Oliver says. I do my part and smooth out his voice in my head; that way, it hardly matters,. “...I do, you know, nearly.” 

And in that moment, I don’t think there is any doubt in my heart; it lifts, clear and light, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't go to California and not have an In-an-Out reference. The four-by-four is ungodly, but the fries and the shake are pretty good! 
> 
> Elio's bit about two gazes meeting at another person is paraphrased from Alan Bennett's _History Boys_ (2006).
> 
> "The ear is the master of the story," is taken from Italo Calvino's _Invisible Cities_. I thought it was fitting for Elio here. 
> 
> Lastly, I am aware that Samuel cannot tell a bad joke to save his life, and spot the nod to Oscar Wilde.
> 
> This has been a fun ride, more squee available in the epilogue xx.


	18. Epilogue: Summer

I like summers in Italy. Here, we can be unmindful of the world. The time is especially endless in B. Even mere seconds are lingering and languid. I don’t usually wear a shirt and I am glad that Oliver is adding to the tradition. In fact, he might subsume me and become _the_ tradition, why not. I don’t even mind it when other people look. He is very meticulous about me and putting on sunscreen every time we go outside (usually to go swimming). Sometimes we take our time. While I can’t quite manage an hour, Oliver is being a kind and patient teacher. Or perhaps just happy to subject himself to me. I find either of these options acceptable, I guess. I know I must be doing okay, because Oliver bites into his knuckles into his in order to not make noise. 

“I did suck Thibault off once,” I say and Oliver’s cock twitches in my grip. “Also you’re saying his name wrong.” 

Oliver glances down at me, all hazy-eyed and tousled hair, “Am I?” 

“Well, it’s not T-Bow,” I say. “It’s Thibault.” I lick the head of his prick and Oliver muffles a sound against his knuckle. 

“I am bad at multitasking,” Oliver sighs and grips his fingers into my hair. “And Thibault is the straightest guy.” Bless him, I can tell he is trying. Maybe one day his French will finally be how I like it. 

“Or maybe just not into you,” I release him with a gratuitously aspirated pop. Then I take Oliver’s swim trunks that are bunched around his ankles and tuck him (mostly successfully) back into his pants. “Not everything is about you, you know.” 

He grinds his teeth, “Fuck you.” 

“Maybe later,” I grin, flashing Oliver some of mouth teeth. “If you’re still hard. I bet you get really hard when you get jealous of me.” 

Oliver pulls me close for a kiss and I feel the kiss in the deepest part of me, and the twitch of his cock imprints with promise against my thigh. Then he lets me go and adjusts his trunks, his eyes never once leaving me. 

“C’mon, let’s go swimming before we get distracted again,” Oliver holds out his hand.

I slip my hand in his. So warmed by the Italian sun and the extraordinariness of feeling, Oliver and I head down the stairs together, past the kitchen where I know Mom paring fresh peaches for dessert, to the rest of our ordinary life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! There's a reference to _La Traviata_ in here thanks to @Macaron/@ohana. 
> 
> I know I've said this a thousand times, but oh my goodness guys, thank you thank you! Especially to those of you who do not read AUs/WIPs, thank you for giving this story a chance. This really started out as a vanity project to work on my aversion to first person POV and to quell the image of Oliver-as-rentboy and well. The rest they say is history? There probably won't be an Oliver-version of _Sugar_ but if inspiration strikes I might come back and add bits and pieces.
> 
> Come follow me at @medtnersonata on Tumblr! (I am the world's worst luddite but I do love good chat.)


End file.
